The Man No One Liked
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: NOW COMPLETE AU Casefic: November, 1913, Doctor Watson is invited to the country house of his distant relation, Lord Lestrade. He and the footman, Holmes, who has been assigned as his valet for the weekend, are instantly attracted to one another, but be
1. Introductions and Invitations

**Summary:**In November of 1913, Doctor John Watson is invited to the country house of his distant relation, Lord Lestrade. He and the footman, Holmes, who has been assigned as his valet for the weekend, are instantly attracted to one another. But before the weekend is out, someone will be murdered, and Sherlock and John will have to race to sort through family secrets to find the killer.

**Author's Notes: **At last-My long promised AU! This began as a lovely PWP by **livia_carica.**  
>Most of the first part from Sherlock's point-of-view is hers. I then wrote the same scene from John's point-of-view, but I have long been fascinated by the time period and began to think about the potential of a story set in that time about two gay men.<p>

Staggering amounts of thanks to: **livia_carica** for the brilliant concept and for brainstorming several parts of the mystery with me; **lucybun**, **karadin** and **madder_badder** for brainstorming clues and details; and my amazing set of betas-**lucybun**, **mazarin221b** and **red_chapel**. Alas, I tinkered with it after they returned it to me and ignored their wise advice on occasion so all mistakes are completely mine.

"Mister Holmes!"

Sherlock heard him of course, hard not to the man was so bullish, but still he didn't look up from the hat he was brushing. It dangled from his fingers, almost falling until another fingertip came into the round and brought it expertly back up. He crouched over it from his perch on the wooden bench; the meticulous back and forth of the little hairbrush whispered at him as he brought up the nap of the felt; just so, just so, just so. Still he didn't answer. He lifted the hat to eye-level, straightened his cracking spine, aligned the brim, and made sure it was even. He felt Anderson's glare and sighed, finally deigning to break the silence he had managed to eke out for a good three hours.

"Mister Anderson."

He placed slight emphasis on the sibilance in the title, drew out the last syllable of the surname just a fraction. The drawl was almost unintentional; if pushed, he could say it was a speech impediment but frankly, he liked to annoy Anderson and that was one of the most efficient ways to do it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anderson bristle, making fists and clenching his jaw, and this made him smile. He'd have called him other names, had done in the past, but even though Mrs. Turner was not around, Sherlock bowed to convention. He could do without another talking to tonight when he had a special treat waiting, hidden under the loose floorboard in his room. As first footman Anderson was technically Sherlock's superior, but everyone knew that Sherlock was better at his duties as well as being far more handsome.

He arranged his features into the impassive countenance he used when he knew something degrading was about to be asked of him. "Yes?" he asked, bent over again and went back to brushing the hat as if nothing Anderson could say made the least bit of difference to him.

"You have valet duties tonight."

The brush stilled. Sherlock looked up at the other footman. He thought he'd been prepared for whatever he was going to be asked to do, but this was so much more… interesting. Most of the guests who came for the weekend had their own valets. Why was this guest without one?

"For whom?" The hat dangled precariously from his finger tips, almost forgotten.

Anderson pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket. Sherlock scoffed. A true butler, the breed to which Anderson could only aspire, would have all the names of the weekend's guests engraved on his brain.

"Watson. John Watson. A doctor, apparently."

Sherlock sat back and mentally ran through all the family names he'd memorized after his arrival at Carleton Hall.

"There are a lot of Watsons," he frowned. "Which branch?"

"Well, that's the thing," Anderson replied, tugging on his waistcoat, "he isn't from any of them."

The motorcar's wheels crunched the gravel as it came up the sweeping driveway. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see the junior footman Dimmock shuffling nervously next to him, fiddling with his collar, shining the front of his left shoe on the back of his trouser leg, and he let a smug grin tinge the corner of his mouth. He himself was immaculate and he stood with the poise of someone who knew it; hands at his sides, head high, breath clouding in little puffs. Sherlock recognized the first person who got out of the motorcar, Francis Malvern, fiancé of Lord Lestrade's second daughter. He did not recognize the second.

Dr. Watson was nothing like Sherlock had imagined him to be. As he alighted from the motorcar, he took in the imposing façade of Carleton Hall with a nod and a quick lick of his lips. They were expressive lips that came to rest in an almost imperceptible smile set in a surprisingly open face for a doctor. Easy to read, unlike the guarded expressions of others in the profession that Sherlock had met. He was impressed with the house and when he turned his gaze to the line of staff waiting for him, he was equally impressed with them. Sherlock allowed a second of eye contact, using his peripheral vision to note that the doctor's eyes lingered on him for a fraction of a second more than the others.

Doctor John Watson, late of His Majesty's Army, wondered why he needed to be here at all, but some sort of distant family relationship had required his presence and his mother had insisted, so here he was. As he stepped from the car, he saw the family and staff gathered on the gravel driveway in the chill air as if for parade ground inspection. Despite his egalitarian soul, it was hard not to be impressed by the imposing beauty of the house manor really and the discipline of the staff.

John wasn't an expert in architecture, but he guessed that the building dated from the Elizabethan era, though parts of it might have been built earlier. The late afternoon sun set off the red brick and cast long shadows from the sculpted bushes.

But really, the whole thing was ridiculous. If he was reading the signs correctly, change was coming soon, and this kind of ostentatious living would be seen for the folly it was. Change was coming that would leave bloodshed and grief in its wake, and he'd seen far too much of that already.

John had liked what he'd seen of Lord Lestrade when they'd met in town; an open, friendly and intelligent man. The one thing that he was looking forward to on this taxing weekend was the chance to speak with the man about the growing problems in Europe. What he was absolutely not looking for or expecting was the heat that he felt when he saw the tall, slim servant standing nearly at attention in the lineup. They were all impeccably dressed and turned out, of course, in their striped waistcoats and tails—the butler at a house like this would never tolerate anything less—but this man would have stood out in any crowd. He was startlingly beautiful, with high cheekbones tapering down to a narrow but strong chin. Thin, but with a wiry tension in his limbs that showed his slimness was due to activity rather than illness. He was a good five or six inches taller than John, with a head of dark curls that were only just being kept under control with a little Brilliantine. John shivered with the thought of how that hair would feel in his hands as he tugged that proud head back to expose pale throat.

_Stop it_, he chided himself. It was no good thinking things like that. Things that one did in foreign countries were one thing, but here, on good English soil? In the home of a man he hoped to call friend? No, it was foolish even to let himself notice a too handsome face.

But had the younger man's eyes flicked to his under his gaze? He knew enough of social decorum to know that that was not supposed to happen, but also knew enough of human nature to know that it was impossible to squelch curiosity in an active mind.

Then Lord Lestrade was making introductions and whisking them into the drawing room for drinks before the fire because, "It's a bit brisk this time of year, isn't it?" and John tried to clear those inappropriate thoughts from his mind.

Sherlock busied himself finding Dr. Watson's luggage, snapping at the houseboy, and haranguing the driver about his inability to go more than a few hours without a nip from the flask he had secreted in his boot, before going up to Dr. Watson's bedroom to unpack his things.

Sherlock already knew the Oriental Bedroom was spotless with its elegant Delftware ornaments dusted and arranged just so. He drew the curtains against the dying November light, stirred the fire and then checked it over one more time as he put away Dr. Watson's clothes. They weren't the finest that he'd ever seen, or the most up-to-date, but they were clean and well maintained. He doubted Watson had his own valet, so a butler who knew what he was doing was probably responsible. Sherlock nodded approvingly at the sharply ironed shirts and well-kept jackets. Soft materials, soft colours, muted tones, seemingly matching what he had seen of the doctor so far. Ink stains on the left sleeves of the shirts indicated the hand he wrote with; the heels of his shoes told he had once walked with a limp, although there had been no sign of one when he stepped from the car. He was inspecting the left shoe, sole up, when the door behind him opened.

Sherlock almost dropped the shoe. He grasped for composure, struggling to school his features.

"Sir, I apologi—"

John smiled and held up his hand. "I'm sure they're very interesting shoes, Mr. Holmes."

_Mister. _

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't used to being called 'mister' by anyone but the other servants. This Dr. Watson was going to be even more interesting than he had originally thought.

For John, finding the young man inspecting his shoes when he walked into the room he'd been given was a surprise, one that was exciting and frightening at the same time. Apparently he was 'Holmes,' the footman that had been assigned as his valet. To have such unattainable beauty so close was going to make the weekend difficult to endure.

The young man continued, "I've laid out your evening clothes, sir."

Holmes' voice was low, smooth and rich. The accent sounded posher than John's own, no doubt cultivated to put his employers at ease. John smiled tightly and started to remove his jacket. The room felt much too hot all of a sudden.

But he had underestimated the other man's speed. Holmes was there in an instant to remove the jacket for him. He should have remembered that this was the man's job, to make sure that John wanted for nothing.

"Allow me, Dr. Watson."

John shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to give nothing away as those slender fingers brushed against the back of his neck. The man smelled of starch, bootblack and other household cleaners, but just beneath it was a slightly musky, heated smell.

"It that what you do? Help me dress?"

"I'm here to dress you, sir, to take care of everything you need."

You have no idea what I need, what I want, thought John. What I'm imagining. If you did you'd be out of this room and off to your master in seconds, and I'd be on the next train home if not in jail. But then he remembered that Holmes was a servant. John could do anything he wanted and his word would be believed. It reminded him of the way that some of the other officers had behaved in India and it sickened him. It was imperative that he keep control of himself and not put the young man in an awkward position.

The doctor brought his hands up to the lapels of his brown travelling suit and with a start, Sherlock realized he meant to remove his own jacket, necessitating a swift stride across the room. Their hands brushed as Sherlock took over pulling the jacket from the other man's shoulders.

Of course, stupid, stupid! Military man, recently returned from duty, he didn't have a valet or even a butler. He took care of everything himself, meticulously and religiously.

A slight shock ran through him as his fingers brushed against the fine blond hairs at the nape of the doctor's neck and felt the warmth radiating from that skin that bore the burnish of a foreign sun. Sherlock was surprised at his visceral response. From the safety of his position behind the other man, he frowned at his own reaction. Doctor Watson was attractive—sandy blonde, blue-eyed and sturdy—a type that Sherlock liked, but it could be very dangerous if the doctor realized that Sherlock was attracted to him.

He moved to face Dr. Watson and started to remove the other man's tie. The doctor cleared his throat and Sherlock felt the vibrations through his knuckles as he loosened the tie, slipping a long finger into the knot and gently pulling the end free. The other man's pulse was hammering so hard at his neck that Sherlock could actually see it and he wondered—rather madly—what the good doctor would do if he were just to bend his head down and ghost his lips over it, nip ever so softly with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. There was a slight flush rising from underneath the stiff collar and the doctor's eyes were so dilated as to be almost black. So, Dr. Watson was clearly attracted to him as well but still might not welcome an advance. What to do to test the hypothesis?

Sherlock pulled the tie free and laid it over his arm to finish unfastening the doctor's collar.

Generally, this was all that a valet would do, then receive the clothes as the gentleman removed them, perhaps offering a helping hand with cuffs or a steadying one while the man pulled on his trousers. He wondered how far he could take it.

"I'm fairly sure, Mr. Holmes, that I can…" the doctor cleared his throat, "undress myself." His breathing had deepened, the last word was almost a whisper, and he had trouble looking Sherlock directly in the eye.

"Not at all, sir," Sherlock smiled. "It's what I'm here for."

Neither of them spoke as Sherlock pushed John's braces down and flicked open the top button of the white cotton shirt that covered slightly tanned skin. He'd been stationed abroad, the sub-continent probably; no one got a tan like that in the north of England in autumn. The demarcation line where his collar had come up was still visible between the exposed neck and the paler chest that emerged with each slowly undone button. Watson's hitched breathing was the only sound other than the crackle of the fire; a sharp intake as each little disc of mother-of-pearl left its mooring and was cast adrift. Sherlock was taking his time and he licked his lips as he reached the last one, his gaze drawn beyond the waistband to the cloth drawn taut at the front of Doctor Watson's trousers.

Sherlock caught the other man's eye and made sure that he was looking as Sherlock licked his lips and flicked his eyes to the doctor's mouth before moving around to pull the shirt from Dr. Watson's shoulders. As he began to remove it, Dr. Watson grabbed his wrist and shook his head.

"I have a…scar." He swallowed, embarrassed. "It's not something I…"

"Sir," Sherlock pitched his voice low, soothing. "I assure you, you have no reason to be embarrassed." He paused then went on in a near whisper, "About anything, Doctor Watson…"

The grip loosened and the doctor nodded almost imperceptibly. "Fine. Carry on."

Sherlock nodded, smiling inwardly, and gently removed the shirt to reveal a mass of knotted flesh on the left shoulder. It had healed, but not cleanly. Evidence of an infection had marred the area surrounding a clear bullet hole. Almost involuntarily he ran his finger over it, examining it, feeling its rough texture. Doctor Watson shuddered and let out an audible sigh.

Had that been a tantalizing little smirk, a knowing and sexual twist to that mouth with its perfect Cupid 's bow lips, John thought, or was he projecting his own desperation? Looking for a sign of invitation that would justify his own actions? Because it was taking every ounce of control to not grab the man and thrust against those narrow hips while he crushed that erotic mouth with his own.

The lips, the smile, it was too much. John knew that he was lost. It was too similar to Mazouq. John thought back, remembering Mazouq that last time, looking at him with those same strange-colored eyes, heavy-lidded from sex, as he lay on John's bunk, all languorous limbs and a heart-shaped arse. The two young men were too similar; rich and artificially cultured voices, mimicking the upper classes better than the upper classes themselves; sloe-eyed and exotically boned with plush, mischievous mouths. Wicked, wicked mouths. The only difference being that one had been the colour of milky tea and the other was the colour of pure cream.

John felt like he might spend in his trousers at the thought of that skin, his semen blending into its whiteness. There had been nothing since he'd returned from India. He was too cautious. The Wilde scandal was a part of his youth, and his family would never survive the disgrace. He had Harriet's marriage prospects to consider, lowered as they already were by her age and her radical ideas. But God, the man was perfection. He couldn't be imagining it when those hands lingered, brushed him teasingly, could he?

Holmes led John over to the full-length mirror and slipped the crisp linen shirt off the hanger. He stood behind John, helped him into the sleeves and reached around to fasten the buttons. John was quite certain that this wasn't the proper way of doing things, but when Holmes pressed himself against John's back, John could feel the other man's arousal.

They looked at one another in the mirror.

"I hope you don't think me too forward, _sir_…" Holmes rumbled, the vibration moving right through John's chest.

John licked his lips and pressed back against the other man. "Is this what valets do?"

"Only the good ones, sir," Holmes chuckled silently, his reflection smirking back. John giggled, an almost girlish giggle that had always embarrassed him, but Holmes' smile became sweetly genuine at the sound.

John turned to face the tall valet, their chests pressing together, both breathing heavily, hearts pounding. Eyes flickered between lips and eyes. A lean forward of Holmes' head and a tilt back of John's brought their lips so close together they were tasting each other's breath, the cheese and pickle sandwich John had eaten on the train and the boiled sweet he'd had after, and the strong tea that was all that the taller man had had for lunch.

"Your name," John whispered. "I need to know your name. I don't want to call you Holmes anymore."

He was surprised by the thoughtful look on the other man's face. "My name is Sherlock. You may hear me referred to as Robert, though."

"Why, is it your middle name?"

Sherlock paused. He wasn't sure why was telling this near stranger his real name. A weekend dalliance was one thing, but his name, his _real_ name, was another. "No. But a servant is not supposed to have a name that might be challenging for the masters. My mother had ideas above her station."

"So they took away your name…"

"No, they can't take anything from me that I don't give them, and I don't choose to give them that power." His eyes clouded and he flicked them away from the doctor's penetrating gaze.

"John, please call me John."

Still looking away, Sherlock said, "We should really get you dressed for dinner, sir Doctor John."

He knelt to take off John's shoes as John unfastened his trousers.

Now that they both knew that they wanted the same thing, they became oddly shy. John turned his back to hide his erection and Sherlock took the offered trousers and handed over the dress pair in silence.

Done up, John turned back and let Sherlock help him into his braces and button on his dickey.

John tilted his head forward to let Sherlock put in his collar stud. "Thank you. I don't want to be late for dinner. I'm not used to places like this."

"No, I shouldn't imagine in the army there was any time to spare. Were you in Africa or the sub-continent?" Sherlock moved smoothly now. He helped John into his black waistcoat and expertly tied the black bow tie around John's neck.

"Oh, did they tell you that I was an army doctor?"

"You told me."

"What?"

"I was told you were a doctor. Your bearing said military. The tan told me that it was in a more southern climate, therefore it must be the colonies in Africa or India."

John looked at Sherlock sharply, "That's brilliant. It's obvious now that you've pointed it out, but I doubt that I'd have noticed those things.

"Can you do that all the time? For everyone?"

"Most people are very easy to read if you observe carefully. It's written in everything they do, everything they say. How long did you have a limp?"

"Is that what you were doing? When I came in? Studying my shoes for wear?"

"Yes. I find…it's easier to do my job if I know as much as possible about the people I serve. They aren't going to tell me, but they like it when I know what they need before they ask."

"Yes, I had a limp for six months after I came back, but it eased up after I took up walking again in the park.

"What else do you know about me?"

"I knew you were attracted to me."

John smiled, "That was a bit obvious, wasn't it. Go on."

"You have a sister and your father is dead. That one is too easy."

"Picture in my case. I'm not used to having someone else unpack my things. I had a batman briefly, but then he was promoted and I never asked for another."

"Your practice is in London, but it's just starting out. I recognize the London mud and if you were more prosperous or looking for richer clientele, you would have purchased a new suit.

"Your sister is unmarried even though she must be in her late twenties, possibly because she's had no offers, unlikely as she is not unattractive, but more likely because she's a radical. Obvious from her clothes."

"Good Lord! That's amazing."

"You think so?"

"Extraordinary, simply extraordinary."

Sherlock smiled. It was a genuine smile that he didn't often have occasion to use. "That's not what most people say." He felt a slight blush spreading over his cheeks. It flustered him to feel this sincerely flattered and the feeling made him uncomfortable.

"What do they say?"

"That it's a trick. That I've learned things about them and am making it up to draw attention to myself."

"Well, then they are idiots."

"Thank you,…John."

During the conversation Sherlock moved around the room, removing the collar from John's discarded shirt, folding his travel-dusty trousers over the butler stand, and laying out John's toiletries on the dressing table.

But for all his careful determination to be prepared for any eventuality, he was startled when John slipped up behind him and embraced him. His body thrummed at the feel of John's arms around his waist.

"Where do we go from here?" John whispered into his ear.

"Ah, John, Doctor Watson. I…the evening bell is about to ring and I need to change and get ready to serve at table. Let me just put you in your evening jacket and then I'll be going. Feel free to join the other guests in the drawing room whenever you like."

He moved to fetch the dinner jacket from where it hung on the wardrobe door. But John stopped him.

John licked his lips nervously, "Will you…will you come back tonight?"

"It's my duty to undress you, prepare your clothes for the morning, and make sure that you are settled for the night."

"Oh, of course, your duty." John released him and moved away.

"But, if sir means will I come to his bed after those duties are done, then the answer is a most willing yes. After all, sir might need something in the night and being unfamiliar with the house, be unable to find me…in a timely fashion," and there was that smile again, that made John ache. He wanted to finish the kiss they'd come so close to having, but he knew Sherlock needed to go, and he knew he didn't want to stop with just one kiss.


	2. After Dinner Conversations

Dinner was an agony. Later John would remember nothing of the women on either side of him or their conversation. He could barely recall what was served. He only remembered the tantalizing flash of Sherlock's left wrist as he presented the food and placed it on John's plate, or the way he leant in around John's right shoulder to pour the wine, so close that John could smell that delicious scent again, the sweat and lye soap and starch and something underneath so sexual it made John's mouth go dry so that he was rudely gulping his wine each time it was refilled. The extra alcohol only made the situation worse. He wanted to reach out and grab that perfect white wrist and kiss it, to slide his mouth up and bite Sherlock's abductor pollicis brevis; the Mount of Venus he remembered it was commonly called, sign of sensuality and beauty. Then he wanted to lick a long stripe along the palm up to the tips of Sherlock's fingers and suck them into his mouth one at a time.

He was half hard through the entire meal, tenting the white napkin in his lap obscenely. If not for the tablecloth, the ladies on either side would have had quite a shock.

Thankfully Sherlock wasn't in the room when the men retired to the billiard room to smoke, clearing the table no doubt, or John would have had to stand behind the sofa, a difficult position to maintain. He only just managed to focus on Lord Lestrade's discussion of the Balkan wars and offer some sort of coherent response.

When they rejoined the ladies in the large drawing room, John found himself trapped on the sofa with Lord Lestrade's maiden aunt who was ranting about the suffragettes and how they brought all women down. John offered that his sister was a suffragette, thus ending the conversation. It gave him a small thrill of satisfaction to see the look on her face.

At that very moment Sherlock returned to the drawing room to stand discretely at attention. He looked like a Greek God next to the other footmen. He pointedly did not look at John.

At last Lady Lestrade rose, signaling the end of the evening. John felt like he'd been released from a prison sentence.

Despite dashing for his room he found Sherlock already there, brushing and laying out his tweeds for the next day.

Sherlock straightened up as John entered, ever the proper servant. "I'll just take your shirt down to iron."

"Oh, leave it!" What did the shirt matter when all John wanted was to finally kiss those rose-pink lips and taste that white skin?

"I can't." There was a hint of something angry in his voice. "It's more than my job's worth to let you go down to breakfast in the morning in a wrinkled shirt."

He wants to get away, thought John despairingly. He regrets this afternoon and is sorry he promised to stay with me tonight.

"You don't have to, you know. Come back, I mean."

One look at Sherlock's face told John that he had grossly misjudged the other man's feelings on the matter. The cool, haughty look was gone. Instead Sherlock looked very young and very vulnerable. There was a flush of color on his high cheekbones.

"I'm sorry, sir," he stammered. "I misread the situation. I won't disturb you any longer. I'll bring your clothes back up in the morning, shall I?"

John crossed the room quickly to embrace Sherlock before he could run away. "We're a pair of first-rate idiots, aren't we? Of course I want you to come back and stay with me all night. I just…I was worried that you didn't want to, but felt you had to because I'd suggested it." He felt Sherlock relax slightly into his arms. "I mean, my God, look at you. You're an Arabian stallion and I'm…I'm a Shetland pony."

Sherlock smiled at that, eyes downcast. "I would hardly say that you're a horse, John. Except perhaps where it counts." The corner of his mouth quirked up in a lascivious smirk.

John pulled Sherlock's mouth down to his, fingers digging into the soft hair at the nape of Sherlocks' neck, free of the oily Brilliantine, the easy kiss intensifying until John was reaching for the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock broke the kiss and slapped his hands away. "John, John, God, John, please. Please stop. I really have to iron your shirt. I won't be able to do it in the morning and they'll wonder if I don't go down and do it now. All the valets will be there. I'll be back very, very soon. God, please," he whined as John continued to work his mouth along the underside of his jaw. "Please let me go. I can't, I can't." He was gasping for breath under John's onslaught. "I want you so much. If you don't stop now I won't be able to leave and I'll be ruined."

The desperation in Sherlock's voice finally made John pause. He rested his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder for a moment as they both caught their breaths.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Go, just hurry back. I'm dying."

"I am too. You have no idea how it was for me tonight, John. Being that close to you, wanting to kiss along your neck as I leant in to pour your wine…to straddle your lap and taste your mouth."

John giggled, "I wanted to bend you over the table."

"That would have certainly made the after dinner conversation interesting," Sherlock chuckled.

John looked up into Sherlock's face and stroked his cheek gently. "Go so you can come back soon."

Out in the hall Sherlock had to take a moment to lean against the cool marble of a column to let his arousal subside, and his confusion. John Watson _was_ different. He'd known it from the first moment he'd seen John step from the car; military bearing combined with an open and pleasant face. John Watson looked _good, _like a good and kind man. What a ridiculous thought. It went against all of the careful, logical observation with which he'd tried to discipline his mind.

The afternoon had been a gamble. One could never be certain of how someone might react, even one who clearly wanted you. It had been awhile since he'd had a lover. John was only here for the weekend. Just a bit of fun.

But now he _wanted_ John Watson and he wanted John to want him. Worse, he wanted John to like him. He hadn't lied when he'd said that he had longed to touch John at dinner and imagined John's hands on him. But more than that, he'd actually thought about what he might say to a man like John Watson. And he wanted to know everything about John. When he thought that John didn't want him to come back he'd felt disappointment, certainly, but also sorrow.

In the laundry room Anderson was ironing the shirt of another guest. Ironing it so slowly and badly that Sherlock wanted to grab it from him and do it himself. Anderson ironed the back and front first and then the sleeves so that the front was wrinkled again by the time he finished.

"You know, Holmes, we all had extra duties tonight, so standing there and rolling your eyes because you can't have the iron is just childish."

"I'm not rolling my eyes because I'm impatient; I'm rolling my eyes because you're incompetent."

Anderson stepped angrily away from the ironing board, but fortunately the hiss as the iron scorched the shirt pulled him back. "Dammit! Look at what you made me do."

"Language, Anderson. You'd better get some vinegar on that before the damage is done."

Anderson scowled and ran off to the kitchen with the shirt, leaving Sherlock alone. He ironed John's shirt as quickly as he could while still doing a near perfect job, sprinkling the starch with care. Then he made a quick stop in the utility room and dashed up the stairs.

"Mister Holmes?" asked Gregson, the butler, coming down. Gregson was decent, but a stickler for rules. "We do not run up the backstairs, no matter how late it is."

"No, sir, only I was delayed with Doctor Watson's shirt and I know he wanted to retire quickly."

"Very well, but haste makes waste."

"Yes, sir."

"And what is in the jar?"

"Mineral oil, sir. Doctor Watson has an old war injury. He asked if I could massage it for him."

"Very well. Carry on, but with dignity, Mister Holmes, with dignity."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

John was sitting on the chaise lounge in just his dressing gown when Sherlock entered.

"Doctor Watson, you know that it's my job to undress you," Sherlock teased as he set the small jar with its covering towel on the bedside table.

John rose and crossed to him, pressing him against the wardrobe as soon as the shirt was properly hung up. "I guess since there are rules, someone else must be undressed." He smirked.

Sherlock closed his eyes as John undid his white tie, pulled it free and dropped it to the floor. Then John undid the buttons of the white waistcoat and pushed it off along with the trim, black coat. He slid the braces down past Sherlock's hands. Only then did he let himself start on the buttons of the shirt, undoing the collar and letting it spring free, then slipping each button from its hole, kissing the bared skin at each step.

Sherlock moaned as John's mouth circled his nipple, then kissed its way lower. He was shaking and his knees felt weak. "Take me to bed, or I'm going to fall down."

He managed to shuck his shoes and unbutton his trousers as he stumbled towards the bed with John's help, so that by the time he fell backwards onto the already turned down bed, John was able to pull them off and then unclip his socks and remove them with the garters.

John crawled between Sherlock's legs and looked down at the angelic young man spread out before him. "You are so gorgeous. How is it possible that you want to be here with me?"

Sherlock smiled, a sweet, slightly crooked smile, "Because…"

He reached up to pull John down into a deep kiss, their tongues touching, lightly at first, but then with increasing intensity.

John moved to kissing along Sherlock's jaw, as he had earlier, to the ear where he swirled his tongue and nipped at the earlobe.

Sherlock groaned and tilted his head so that John could continue to lick down his throat. "More," he said, panting. "More." He reached out, fumbling blindly for the jar of mineral oil, making John laugh and reach for it himself.

It was as good as John had imagined it would be when he'd fantasized about taking Sherlock on the dining room table in front of all the guests. Actually, it was better. Because he hadn't let himself think that Sherlock would want it this much. Want him this much. Sherlock made the most intoxicating noises that couldn't possibly be fake. Somehow he managed to hold himself back with long torturous stokes when he wanted just to thrust in harder and harder. Sherlock tried to reach between them to touch himself, but John braced himself with one arm and used the other to stop him. Sherlock's eyes opened wide and there was a little fear in them. He thinks I'm not going to let him climax, John thought. Some bastard took what he wanted and left him frustrated and alone.

"Shhh," he whispered, "I'll take such good care of you. I'll make you feel so good, I promise."

Sherlock's eyes stayed open wide, but now there was wonder in them. John leant in to suck on those swollen lips. "I'm so close," he murmured. "I don't want to spoil it for you."

Sherlock responded by lifting his hips to give John more leverage. It was all John needed. His orgasm hit him, and he smothered his cries in Sherlock's shoulder. But he didn't let himself recover for long. He had a promise to fulfill. Instead, he slid down Sherlock's body, lingering over the sensitive nipples, feeling Sherlock writhe beneath his attack. He chuckled softly, thinking what he had in store.

Keeping Sherlock's legs bent he lowered his head and ran his tongue along tender and sensitive skin, tasting his own semen. The first time Mazouq had done it he'd been appalled, but Mazouq had just laughed. That was always Mazouq's attitude. "Does it feel good, John?" he'd teased. And yes, God, it felt good.

It felt so good that Sherlock screamed and immediately bit his own hand to stifle his cries. I want to take him some place where he can scream and cry out as much as he wants, John thought as he licked again, sucked on Sherlock's scrotum and then moved up to Sherlock's cock. Sherlock was so hard that John had to use his hands to pull it upright to slip his mouth around the head and slide his lips down. It only took three strokes before Sherlock went completely rigid and John felt the pulsing against his lips and tasted the acrid liquid on his tongue. Sherlock didn't cry out this time, just gasped. Finally as John sucked the last drops, Sherlock sank back against the mattress as if all power had gone out of his muscles.

John moved back up the bed and lay down to pull Sherlock's still vibrating body onto his, Sherlock's head on his shoulder, John's arm around him. "They weren't very good to you, were they, your previous lovers?" he murmured, soothingly, kissing the slicked curls and running his fingers gently along Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock burrowed closer, a rueful little smile flickering across his face. "They weren't bad to me, but let's say that they weren't generous. Thank you."

"Thank _you_," John laughed teasingly.

Sherlock laughed with him, then paused, "There weren't so many, lovers I mean. Four—five lovers. I don't usually…this afternoon…" He froze, worried that John would think that he did this kind of thing all the time with anyone who wanted him.

But all John said was, "Tell me about them," a tender curiosity in his voice.

There was a long pause as Sherlock considered what to say, how much to say. "The first barely counts. We never got beyond kissing and touching. We were both fifteen. We'd been watching each other for months before we were finally alone, walking along a path together. I said, 'You can kiss me if you like.' After that we stole every private moment we could until he went off to be an apprentice and I came here.

"Next was Mickey, the first footman." He paused, these were the good memories, easy to share. "I was nineteen. He was older. That same thing, glancing at each other, trying to figure out if you were reading it right. He caught me in the back hall one afternoon and said that I could come to his room that night if I was interested. He taught me a great deal. It was good fun."

Sherlock trailed off remembering clutching the headboard of Mickey's bed and trying not to make a sound as Mickey pounded into him, freezing when they heard Mrs. Turner's concerned voice in the hall.

"Are you alright, Mickey? Only I heard some noise."

"Fine, fine, Mrs. Turner. Just a bad dream, made me flail a bit. No more cheese at dinner for me."

"Well, alright, dear. Let me know if you need me to bring you any Bromo-Seltzer."

Mickey had leant over and whispered, "Oh, no, Mrs. Turner, I'll feel so much better when I spend deep in Sherlock's lovely arse."

Sherlock had almost fallen over trying not to laugh. It had been an easy and pleasant affair. Mickey had been hired away by a friend of the family and gone off to London; disappointing, but not traumatic.

He closed his eyes then, unconsciously reaching to pull John's arm around him tighter. He didn't want to tell John that the third one was Lord Lestrade's son, Peter. He didn't want to tell John that he had thought he might be in love. And he definitely didn't want to tell him that he thought that until the night when Peter had calmly asked him to go and entertain Charles, a college friend, for the night as if it meant nothing. And he had gone. He had gone down on his knees and performed his duty perfectly, just as he always did. Afterwards he had gone to the kitchen and washed his mouth out with salt water until his gums burned.

The next day, when Peter had slipped him a note asking to meet in the greenhouse, one of their favorite places, he'd gone, because what else could he do? As Peter fucked him, he'd whispered how Charlie had said that Sherlock was the best he'd ever had as though it were a compliment.

Peter had introduced him to the pleasures of recreational cocaine and after that Sherlock had learned to use it to take himself out of his mind when he needed. He had some under a floorboard in his room, but it hadn't even occurred to him to take it before coming back to John. Coming back to John had been a pleasure that needed no further stimulant.

For a moment he considered telling John about Lord Lestrade's ancient uncle who liked to be ridden so that he could watch Sherlock's face. That one hadn't been so bad. There was no love, but the sex was boring and uncomplicated. And Sir Clive gave nice gifts, good chocolates and a box of silk handkerchiefs and even a rather good set of gold cufflinks that he had pawned. But Sir Clive had moved to the south of France for his health and that had been the end of that.

He didn't tell him because he didn't want John to know that he was used and damaged goods.

Instead he rolled over so that his head was on John's chest where he could hear John's heartbeat. "And you? Three lovers, I think."

"How did you…yes, yes, you brilliant creature. Three. Tell me how you knew." John knew deflection when he heard it but he was willing to let it go for now. There was something fragile beneath Sherlock's arrogance that made John want to soothe the young man's fears, but that would take time.

Sherlock smiled and placed a few kisses on John's skin. "Shot in the dark, but a good one. You're clearly not a virgin. In fact, you're very talented." He heard and felt John's giggle against his ear. "You also seem comfortable with your inversion. Possibly because of experiences abroad in the army, away from England. The first was probably like mine—pleasantly discovering you weren't alone in your preferences. The second reinforced your idea that it could be fun and uncomplicated. He was probably a bit older—no, around the same age, but more experienced—and he taught you a few things."

He pushed himself up slightly so that he could watch John's face as he spoke, "But the third…he was very talented. And you loved him. It's all in your face. The way you look when I'm saying these words." Saying it aloud, that John had loved someone, gave him an unexpected pain in his chest.

John smiled and gazed at the ceiling for a few moments. "It seems so easy when you describe it, but it's not. Not for ordinary fools like me." He looked back at Sherlock and smiled gently and reassuringly.

"Yes, I met someone when I was in college. Same sort of thing, dancing about, neither of us sure how to find others like us. Then a fumbling sort of joking that turned into something else. We're still friends, but we were never in love." He giggled again, "Just relieved that we weren't alone and in love with sex."

Sherlock crossed his hands and rested his head on them so that he could keep watching John's face.

"In India, well, things went on there," John continued. "You knew it wasn't something you could do at home, but there was a sense of anything goes because tomorrow we may die. Pat was a big guy, and very blunt. Basically said, Doctor Watson, I think it would be fun to fuck. What do you say? Certainly there were some who objected, but we were both officers and sturdy fellows, so we never had much trouble."

John paused and his eyes went distant, but he continued to embrace Sherlock, absently stroking his back.

"And the third?" Sherlock asked. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. He died, didn't he? You loved him and he died, and that's when you decided to come back to England."

John looked down into Sherlock's face. "His name was Mazouq. He was Afghani. I loved him very much and he died."

There was a long silence where they simply looked at one another. Finally John said softly, "How did you know?"

"You don't want to talk about it because it's painful, but you want to talk about it because you loved him and you can't talk about it to anyone else. If he'd left you, you might be pining, but you'd be angry, too, and you wouldn't want to talk about it. If you'd left him, you could talk about it as easily as the other two." Sherlock shrugged slightly. He knew his voice sounded clinical, even cold, but this was what he did, what he'd trained himself to do. To observe and deduce.

John shifted and Sherlock moved so that he was curled up facing him, one arm thrown across John's chest so that he could continue to feel his heart.

In a low voice, John said, "I would like to talk about it, if you don't mind listening. You remind me of him. Not, not in a strange way, but… Just that you are both…were…so remarkable in your own ways.

"He was so beautiful. Tall like you, slim, and preternaturally graceful. He seemed almost feminine in the way he moved. Not like those men you find in certain areas, trying to be women, but very aware of himself, the perception he gave, just as you are." John smiled at Sherlock again and then looked back at the ceiling to continue.

"His English was flawless. Far better than most of the officers. He'd learned it in his teens.

"I thought he was a whore when I first saw him. He was often about camp and there were certainly many who were, male and female, but one day I saw him and he'd been beaten up. His lip was scabbed from where it had been split. He had quite a shiner and a bad scratch on his cheek. I told him to come into the surgery so I could check him over. I asked what had happened and he said, 'Someone offered to buy something I do not sell, and when they suggested that I lend it to them instead, I said that I didn't lend valuable objects to cretins and they took offense.' That was the way he spoke, in metaphor and careful allusion.

"That was how we met. He certainly had lovers, but they were always his choice and the ones who were lucky enough to actually earn his favor were discrete.

"When he left the surgery that day he said, 'You are a good man, Doctor Watson. I would like to know you better,' and then he added, 'for you are very handsome.' I didn't know what to think of that. The two others, Pat and Colin back in college, they were normal English stock like me, but he was…exquisite. Like you. I couldn't believe that he would be remotely interested in me."

Sherlock slid his fingers teasingly through the soft hair on John's chest and circled one nipple lazily. "You sell yourself short, John. I could see that when you arrived. You _are_ very handsome. And you have a certain…bearing that makes it hard to look at anyone else."

John blushed—it sat well on his round face—and glanced at Sherlock to see if he was mocking. "It is my medical opinion that you might need glasses. And possibly the help of an Alienist."

Sherlock laughed. "Go on. Tell me more about him. How did you become lovers?"

"He would come to the surgery when I had no patients and we would just talk. He told me about his childhood. How his mother adored the British and wanted him to become a servant so that he would be taken back to England and had gotten him English lessons at great cost. That was why he was at the camp, I think, in hopes that one of us would need a valet.

"And then, after a few weeks, he said that he would like to come to my bed. He made it seem so simple—that we liked each other, desired one another, and should become lovers." John sighed, lost in memory.

"I used to ask him sometimes when we lay in my bunk together, how he reconciled the way he was, the way we were, with his God, Allah. He prayed faithfully, hopping naked out of bed to perform the ablutions they require; well, a modified version of his own design, I think. They're supposed to bathe fully after intercourse. He would wipe down with a moist rag, pray, and then hop back into bed with me without a pause. He said that he believed that Allah meant us to enjoy the world and all that was in it as long as we did no harm. He wouldn't eat meat. Never drank. But enjoyed both women and men. I couldn't understand that at first…"

"Have there ever been women for you?" Sherlock interrupted, curious.

John turned his head to look at Sherlock, "No, not once. I tried. Dances, social things, but I knew it was pointless. You?"

"No, never. Go on."

"Mazouq taught me so much," John went back to gazing into space. "He would say that just because he ate an apple it didn't mean that he couldn't eat a pomegranate. And when I said that I never felt anything for women, he became cross and said that no one said that I had to like pomegranates. He spoke like that all the time. For him, there were none of these restrictions that other people have. None of the categories. 'When I am with a woman, John,' he would say, 'I am a man with a woman. When I am with a man, I am a man with a man. When I am with you, I am Mazouq with John. Why must it be more than that?'"

Sherlock gazed at him. His hand, which had been caressing John's chest throughout, stilled. "How did he die, John?"

John drew in a breath, "He was hit with a sniper's bullet. It was meant for me. Not that he leapt in front of me or anything. Just bad timing. Snipers often targeted doctors."

"Kill a soldier, you've killed one man; kill a doctor you, kill all the men he might have saved," Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, something like that. We paused in our walk and the bullet skimmed his neck. Hit the carotid artery. I screamed for help, but we both knew there wasn't a damn thing that could be done. I could only hold him as he bled to death. And he said, in those last moments, 'I will always love you, John.' I can only hope that I am as strong and at peace when I go."

He was crying without a sound, tears running down his cheeks. Sherlock ran his finger along John's jawbone to catch them.

"Thank you, John, for telling me."

"Thank you for listening."

The lay in silence for awhile, John lost in memories and Sherlock watching him. He is a good man, Sherlock thought. I was right about that. He felt irrationally jealous of this dead man who had earned John's love.

After a long, peaceful silence, Sherlock whispered, "Would you like…would you like to go again, or would you prefer that I let you sleep?"

John rolled to face him and smiled, "Of course I want you again. As many times as you'll let me, in fact. I think he would…would approve of that."

Initial desperation relieved, John could afford to take his time. He wiggled to the end of the bed and kissed Sherlock's feet, making Sherlock giggle and squirm and say that he mustn't. Then he kissed his way up those gorgeous legs, pausing to press his mouth on the inside of Sherlock's bent knee.

John sat up on his knees. "Roll over," he said.

"Oh, yes." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and wiggled his hips suggestively.

John straddled Sherlock's hips and massaged his back with some of the oil, relieving muscles tight from servant's duties.

Sherlock laughed into his arms.

"What's so funny?"

"I told Mr. Gregson that I needed the oil to massage your shoulder. I didn't expect…well, you have surpassed my expectations every step of the way, Doctor Watson."

Sliding his oiled hands between Sherlock's legs, John laughed, "I hope that I continue to do so."

Sherlock obligingly slid onto his knees. He loved this. He loved the feel of a cock, solid inside him, and the hot and cold slide of sweat between his skin and the skin of the lover. He loved the tangle of sorting limbs and positions. And he loved the taut, vibrating wire of anticipation in foreplay. He wished he didn't love it so much, or at all. To not desire would make things so much easier.

But he'd never been with anyone who seemed to enjoy giving him this much pleasure, as if their enjoyment depended upon his. No one had ever been so concerned with his needs. And no one had ever been as focused on him as a person, not just as an eager bed partner. It was different and unnerving.

"Sit up," John said as he sat back on his own heels and pulled Sherlock with him so that Sherlock was sat in his lap, legs spread wide around John's. It wasn't as deep, but it targeted sensitive nerve endings. John gripped Sherlock's hips and held him, settling into the sensation before letting the other man find his own pace and the motion that would give him the most pleasure.

They stayed like that for a while. Sherlock moving and grinding while John let him, enjoying the crescendo of Sherlock's rumbling moans, the startling higher-pitched sweetness of his whimpers when his head fell back against John's shoulder. Only when Sherlock was on the verge of overstimulation did John let himself slip his hand over Sherlock's thigh to stroke Sherlock's cock and bring him to climax, earning another bitten-back scream.

John shut his eyes, focused on Sherlock's clenching muscles around his cock, the satisfied sighs he was making, and the slick heat of Sherlock's back against his cheek and let himself go.

Sherlock fell forward onto his front in a heap, breathing heavily. "Did he, did Mazouq teach you that? If so, then I owe him some thanks."

"Yes, but I don't think he invented it," John laughed, panting to control his own breathing. "Would you like some water?"

Sherlock managed to untangle himself and roll onto his side. He flapped his arm weakly. "You must stop waiting on me. I shall grow terribly spoiled. But since you're offering, I could use a cigarette."

"And you shall have one, my prince," teased John.

He slid from the bed to retrieve his cigarette case from the pocket of his dinner jacket. He lit one and passed it to Sherlock before lowering the gas and climbing back into bed with an ashtray.

They lay, side-by-side, under the covers and shared the cigarette, its glow briefly lighting each face in turn.

In a low voice Sherlock said, "I'm not, not at all."

"Not what?"

"Not a prince. I'm really not special. I'm just a footman who puts on airs, has a somewhat pretty face and…likes sex. You're a doctor and a war hero…"

John rolled towards him, barely avoiding being hit in the eye with the cigarette. "Stop it! Just stop it!"

Sherlock's silver eyes opened wide, "I'm sorry. I won't…"

John raised himself up on his elbow to better look in Sherlock's face, "No, stop denigrating yourself. You are one of the most amazing people I've ever met. Possibly the most amazing. You're brilliant. That thing you do, where you figure things out— it's marvelous and amazing and you should write a book or teach or do something suited to your talents instead of wasting your life waiting on idiots who aren't even worth the breath you have to spend on them.

"You said that they can't take anything that you don't give them. Don't let them make you feel small and unworthy, because you're not, no one is, but especially not you." John went on, "I'm lucky. I was born middleclass, and my father was a doctor and I got to go to college to study. You shouldn't have to suffer the rest of your life because you weren't born into a family with money.

"So don't. Don't ever say that again, not to me, not to anyone, especially not to yourself." John shut his eyes for a moment to bite back all of the things he wanted to say.

Sherlock stubbed out the cigarette and moved the ashtray to the bedside table. "Thank you, John," he whispered as he laid back down.

John put his head on Sherlock's chest and curled around him.

As their breathing started to even out, John whispered, "Can you stay?"

"For a little while."

"Do you want to?"

"Yes."

"Good then."

"Yes." Sherlock nuzzled the top of John's head and let himself relax. He felt safer than he had in years.

He woke at four-thirty, his body set to servant's hours. John was snoring, tiny tremors moving along his limbs. Sherlock took a moment just to watch him and then started to pull himself from the bed.

"Mmmm….where do you think you're going?" John murmured, reaching out a hand to glide a finger along Sherlock's hip.

Of course, army; it had made him a light sleeper, attuned to any changes. Whereas from Peter the words might have been commanding, from John they were tender.

"John, I have to go. The scullery maids will be up to light the fires in less than an hour." He leant in to kiss John softly. "Go back to sleep."

"What about you. Will you get any sleep?"

"I might be able to snatch an hour before I need to get up to bathe and get ready for the day."

John frowned. "That's not enough."

"Don't worry, John. I'm used to it, and I don't sleep that much as a general rule. I'll be fine."

He moved around the room gathering his hastily discarded clothes. They would all need a good ironing, and he couldn't find his collar stud. He stuffed his collar and socks into his pocket and put his shoes on barefoot.

John watched him in the half-light. "When should I get up?"

"Whenever you like. Just ring the bell and I'll come to dress you. Most of the gentlemen rise about eight or eight-thirty, the ladies later."

"I…" John faltered. He still wasn't sure how much Sherlock was feeling, if it was still just pleasant for the younger man. "I enjoyed last night. Very much."

Sherlock smiled, "I did too."

Checking both ways, he slipped out of John's bedroom. He didn't expect to find anyone else in the halls, but you could never be too careful.

His luck held until he was almost to his room.

"Holmes?"

There was Anderson in his dressing gown looking personally affronted by Sherlock's appearance in the hall.

"Anderson," Sherlock sighed. If he had been confronted with someone in his state of dress, or rather undress, creeping up the backstairs at five in the morning, he would have had little doubt as to their activities, powers of observation or not. He wasn't sure that Anderson could make the leap, but then Anderson had a filthy and petty mind, the recesses of which Sherlock was in no mood to plumb.

"Where have you been?" Anderson snapped, his pinched face wrinkling in distaste.

What Sherlock wanted to say was:

_I have been having the best sex of my life. Even if you find some horrid little woman who will tolerate you, marry you and take you to bed, you will never experience pleasure like I just had. And what's more, even if you find a woman who is willing to do more than just lay there as you give her ugly, stupid children, you will never, never, in all your days have what I just had, because after we had sex, we had a conversation. A real conversation where he asked about me and I found out about him, and we liked each other better afterwards._

But instead he snapped back, "Where are _you_ going?"

"To the loo. Answer my question."

"I didn't know that you'd been made butler. But since you're not going to let me pass, I took a walk."

"At five in the morning?"

"I often have trouble sleeping. I read for awhile and then decided to walk around the garden."

Anderson looked him over. For a moment, Sherlock was afraid that Anderson would notice that his shoes weren't wet and that his clothing was far more rumpled than sitting on the bed might make it.

"Well, I'm sure that Mr. Gregson will not be happy to hear that you let yourself out in the night. Did you relock the door?"

"Of course." He tilted his head to one side and opened his eyes wide in mock innocence, "Now, if you've satisfied your curiosity and given yourself sufficient ammunition against me, may I go to my room to rest for an hour?"

"Holmes, you may fool Gregson and the master with your airs and graces, but you don't fool me. There's something wrong with you inside and someday I'll catch you out."

"You're an arse, Anderson. You're jealous of me, and you know you'll never get anywhere in this life. Just stay out of my way."

Anderson was struggling to form a retort with his limited imagination when they heard a small shuffling sound. They both turned to see Tim, the boot boy, already dressed, looking at them with frightened eyes.

"Timmy," said Sherlock, not unkindly. "Go on about your duties. We're fine here."

"And mind you do them shoes right," Anderson called after the terrified boy as he dashed past them and down the stairs.

"I'll catch you out, Holmes, and then you'll get what you deserve. Mark my words," continued Anderson before heading down the stairs with another scowl.

Sherlock leant against the wall for a moment and let out a deep sigh before letting himself into his room for a brief rest.


	3. Business and Other Transactions

John woke with a start at seven-thirty. He'd been dreaming of Sherlock and his body felt cold and hollow without the other man's presence. He puttered around for a while debating whether he should ring for Sherlock dress himself to spare the other man the duty, but at last the simple desire to see Sherlock again overwhelmed his reluctance and he rang the bell.

I'm in love with him, he thought to himself as he waited. It was a marvelous feeling even if it was tinged with the worry of what to do about it.

Three minutes later there was a knock at the door and Sherlock entered the room.

"I dreamt of you and it was horrible when I woke without you there," John murmured, burying his face in Sherlock's neck, smelling the rough soap. "Did you get any sleep?"

"A little, but I'd have rather been with you." He rubbed his face into John's bed-tousled hair, with its scent of bed, of Sherlock himself and of sex.

"Do we have time for…I could dress myself to save time?"

"I can't, John. I want to, but I can't. I'm going to have to find time to press my evening uniform at some point. It will certainly raise suspicion if all of my clothes are wrinkled.

"But I'd be happy to go down on my knees if you like." His voice betrayed eagerness, but was also a little shy.

John pulled back, "No, I don't want you to service me. I want it to be mutual. I love to see your face when your climax hits you. You look…angelic."

Sherlock smiled with a tiny blush. "Tonight. I'll be back tonight and we can do whatever we like."

John pouted, with a little downturn of his thin lips and it looked funny on such an expressive face.

Sherlock laughed and leant in to kiss him lightly and teasingly. "Now, I should draw you a bath." He walked to the washroom to turn on the taps and lay out towels.

John followed. "I suppose joining me is out of the question?"

Sherlock cast him a glance with a chiding twist of his lips. "Just take your bath, John, and stop tempting me."

After John had lowered himself into the heated water, Sherlock said, "John, just so you know…I was seen returning to my room last night. I told him that I'd taken a walk and I doubt he has the intelligence to put anything together, but I thought I should tell you."

John looked up, "By a servant?"

"Yes, Anderson. One of the other footmen. He's an idiot, but he's a conniving idiot, and that makes him dangerous."

"The sullen, rat-faced one?"

Sherlock smiled at how John had captured Anderson without really knowing him. "That's the one. Just stay out of his way if you can. Would you like me to wash your back?"

"You know what I'd like, but I'll take you washing my back."

Sherlock knelt by the tub, soaped up the sponge and started to run it gently over John's shoulders. He took his time tracing the scar and looking at it from the front.

"How did it happen? Was it at the same time as Mazouq?"

"No, later, but less than a month. I think I was reckless after his death, went out into the field more, left myself exposed. It became infected because of my own carelessness and I developed a fever and a tremor, and even the limp, although there was no reason for it that they could find. I must have twisted my back as I fell. A field surgeon with a shaky hand wasn't much use to the army and they sent me home."

"You don't have a tremor now."

John looked at his hand in surprise as he turned it over a few times. "You're right. Interesting."

He leant back as Sherlock squeezed water from the sponge across his soapy shoulders. "You have lovely hands. It's a pity that you have to put them through so much. You should play piano. I bet you have a twelve-inch span."

"I play the violin."

John opened his eyes made enormous with shock. "You play the violin? You are a man of many surprises."

"I told you, my mother had ideas above her station. She felt that violin lessons might help me…pass for a higher class. I couldn't afford a violin, of course, so I'm out of practice now. While I was learning I rented one from the master. I also speak Latin and French."

"Latin and French? I barely speak either of those—just schoolboy translation and what I needed to become a doctor. You are amazing. Just amazing."

Sherlock smiled again at John's admiration. It was seldom that he was praised for what he considered to be his actual accomplishments rather than for his skills as a servant. "I enjoy learning. I shut my eyes and I see things, see how they connect, whether it's Latin grammar or how the bow should feel against the strings to produce the best sound."

John caught Sherlock's hand in his, both wet from the bath, and kissed the palm. "Amazing, extraordinary, brilliant. There aren't words enough to describe all the things you are."

"Do you know you say those absurd things aloud?"

John smiled up at him lazily, "Do you want me to stop?"

"No. It's fine." Sherlock shook himself down again. He realized that he found himself doing that a lot with John. "Finish your bath. I'm going to lay out your clothes and shoes. Do you want me to shave you?"

"No, that I prefer to do myself." John pulled Sherlock's hand to his chest and then reluctantly let go.

Sherlock walked shakily from the steamy room.

I can't fall in love with him, I can't fall in love with him, he thought desperately, but he knew it was too late. This was bad. This was very bad.

He was buffing John's shoes with a bit of felt when John came out wrapped in a towel.

"John," he exclaimed as he jumped up. "You should have called. I'd have helped you dry off."

John shook his head, "That's why I didn't call. The thought of you rubbing your hands all over my naked body…well, I wouldn't be responsible for my actions." John noticed how Sherlock had automatically jumped up, still the servant despite everything.

As Sherlock helped him to dress-long fingers brushing against skin, lips meeting flash in tender nips and kisses-John asked, "How does breakfast work? I don't suppose that I can plead illness and request that you stay with me all day."

"No, I rather think not," Sherlock said with another kiss to John's cheek. "Most of the men take breakfast in the small dining room. The ladies generally take trays in their rooms."

"Ah. Will you be there?"

"In and out. It's a buffet, not served. With double duties, I'll be taking care of other things that I need to do each morning."

Sherlock helped John into his tweed Norfolk jacket.

"I have to go now, John. Come down whenever you're ready. I…"

"What?" asked John turning from the dressing table where he was brushing his still damp hair.

"Nothing." He'd almost given himself away. "I was just going to say, if you need anything I really am here to serve you, as a servant. It will look better if you let me do things for you."

"Alright." John sighed again at the need for Sherlock to play the servant. "One last kiss?"

"Of course."

Without the distraction of Sherlock's presence, John was able to observe the other men at breakfast and to try to piece together the night before.

In addition to Lord Lestrade and Mr. Malvern, there was Sir Neville Grenville, an uncle of some sort; the well-known actor and friend of the family, Thomas Duncaster; and a cousin of Lady Lestrade, whose name John kept missing. The night before, the party had been completed with the local Vicar and his wife.

Breakfast was largely silent, the men occupied with their newspapers, with occasional English comments about the weather and the races and stocks. It was dull conversation and required little of John's mental faculties.

The room offered few diversions: the sideboard with the eggs, bacon, kippers, mutton chops, toast, and other dishes of an English breakfast; pots of coffee and tea; a selection of London newspapers; and even a local rag concerned with who had taken what prize at some fair. There was a landscape on the wall that John suspected was a Turner, although he was no expert. He would have liked to have examined it more closely, but to gawp at a painting in a man's home as though he were in a museum seemed rude.

Only one thing disturbed the peaceful mood. Slapping a newspaper in disgust, Sir Neville exclaimed, "This damned kaffir down in South Africa. What the hell is he doing, stirring up the Indians. Not even his country, apparently."

Mr. Malvern looked up from his kippers, "Who? Where?"

"Damn Gandhi in South Africa. Should have kept him in jail when they had the chance."

John bristled, "Kaffir is a very derogatory term."

Grenville glared at him. Sir Neville was a tall, ascetic-looking man of about seventy with a long, Roman nose. He might have been considered handsome, if not for the fact that his eyes were a bit too close together and for the unpleasant downward twist of his mouth that gave him a perpetual scowl. John remembered hearing his voice, which was surprisingly youthful-sounding, the night before, but not what he had said.

"I'm so sorry if I've offended the _lady_ with my language," Grenville taunted.

Malvern, a rather wet-looking young man with large green eyes that gave him a perpetually startled expression, said, "Why is he there if it isn't his country?"

"Perhaps Mr. Watson can tell us, since he seems to love the darkies."

"It's _Doctor_ Watson and I don't know why Mr. Gandhi is in South Africa. I'm not very familiar with the situation there, but I do know that the Indians have much to be unhappy about." John considered launching into a defense of the Indians that he had known and the conditions for them under British rule, but he suspected that his words would do nothing to change Sir Grenville's prejudice.

Lord Lestrade, who had been deep in conversation with the cousin at the other end of the table, interjected to keep the peace, "Come, gentlemen, let's not spoil breakfast with politics. I know your views, Sir Neville. Doctor Watson, I would enjoy hearing your thoughts, having returned from India recently. Perhaps we can step into my study after we've all finished eating." He gave Sir Grenville a dark look and returned to his conversation.

Grenville continued to scowl at John who met his gaze levelly. It was Grenville who broke first, returning to his newspaper and muttering angrily to himself. John was quite sure that he heard "…went bloody native, damn peasant…" before Grenville's voice tapered off.

When John laid down his napkin, Lord Lestrade said, "Doctor Watson? If you'd like to step into my study, we can get that family matter sorted."

John followed the Lord through corridors he knew he'd never remember to the study off of the library.

The room was book-lined and cozy with a small fireplace. Lord Lestrade's desk, John was pleased to note, was a chaos of papers and books. Although John had been forced to be orderly in the army, at home he never seemed to manage all of the paper that came with a medical practice.

Lestrade sat down behind his desk and waved John to a chair.

"Cigarette?" his Lordship offered from an inlaid teak box with an open, friendly smile

John declined with a shake of his head.

"I suppose you're wondering why I've dragged you all the way out here?" the Lord said as he lit his, then flinging the used match into the fireplace.

"You said that it had to do with some family business? I can't even imagine what might cause you to be concerned with our little branch."

Lestrade dug through the jumble on his desk, "Do you remember Baron Markham?"

"Just that he was my father's patron and friend."

"Just so. He died six months ago. He was my father's first cousin and they grew up together. As all of his children are dead, the job of Executor fell to me."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I may have met him as a child, but after my father's death I believe my mother lost touch with him."

Lord Lestrade nodded, "They may have lost touch, but he remained very fond of your family and left you an income in his will."

John blinked several times. "Good heavens, really?"

"Oh, not a great deal," said Lord Lestrade, mistaking John's surprise for eagerness. "Two hundred pounds per annum, half to your mother and half to you to be paid at the New Year. Upon your mother's death, her half will pass to your sister and her husband and children, if there should be any. It was his wish that the money help you to further establish your practice, although it isn't actually stated as a condition, so you're free to do with it what you like."

"Two hundred pounds? I'm…I'm overwhelmed. That was remarkably generous of him." John tried to remember Baron Markham. "I must have been seventeen when I last saw him, just before I went off to college." Now that he thought about it, there was a family resemblance. Lord Lestrade was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that was just turning silvery-grey and dark, soft eyes. The Baron had been several inches taller than John's father, but John remembered his kind eyes and pleasant smile. He'd always taken time to speak to John and Harriet.

His Lordship smiled in the same genial way and continued, "I just need you to sign these papers…blast it, they were right on top of…oh, here they are. Then I'll contact my banker and get it all arranged."

John took the papers and skimmed the boilerplate text. Everything looked in order.

Lestrade asked, "Would you like to have your solicitor go over it? I would understand. We could finish this in London if you prefer. We'll be visiting our oldest daughter and her family when we come up for Christmas shopping."

John supposed that he should, but he was loath to trouble Lord Lestrade further. "No, no, it will be fine. I'll sign it now." He smiled inwardly. He thought the titles and nobility a waste, and here he was deferring to the other man's schedule. He'd be tugging his forelock next.

"Ah, good, good." Lord Lestrade cleared a space on his desk and offered John a fountain pen. When John passed the documents back, Lestrade dug around a bit more in his desk, produced a pair of spectacles with a self-conscious smile, signed his own name to both copies and blotted the papers.

"And here's your copy. There, that's business taken care of."

The Lord lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "Sorry about that unpleasantness with Sir Neville. He's…a bit set in his ways. Other than that, how are you enjoying your stay at Carlton?"

It occurred to John that he could easily have signed the papers when the family came to London and he wondered why he'd been invited for a whole weekend. "It's been very nice so far. It's a lovely house. Has some history, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes. Wife's better at that sort of thing, though. You should talk to her. I'm sure she would enjoy showing you around. We have some rather nice art in the hall. Finding everything all right?"

John swallowed and licked his lips, "Yes, the young man…the footman serving as my valet is excellent. I want for nothing." He couldn't stop the little smile that crept out at that.

"Good, good…Holmes, isn't it?"

"Yes."

The Lord nodded and seemed on the verge of saying something else, but stopped himself.

"You were in India, yes?"

"Yes. Returned about a year ago. Afghanistan before that."

"Hmm…rum business, that. Bit of a mess they tell me."

"Yes, rather."

They both nodded somberly.

"My younger brother went off to India, stayed, got into trade and is doing quite well. Couldn't do it myself; too bloody hot," Lestrade continued.

John laughed. "It does take some getting used to, I admit, although I was in the north and escaped the worst of it. But it's good to be back. Back to my practice."

Lord Lestrade laughed with John and then looked out the window in silence for a minute, "We were talking about this Balkan thing last night. Think we'll have to step in?"

John considered, "It does concern me, to be honest. I don't know if it's our place. That feeble treaty just started another war. I think that there's a lot of resentment in the world. Technology, industry. Gives people freedom to think and to realize that things don't have to stay the same. Russia had that scare in 1905…" John trailed off. Personally he thought the change was good thing, but he considered the threat these changes posed to men like Lestrade and Grenville. While he still despised Grenville's racism, he could at least understand. When one's way of life is threatened one fights to protect it.

"I think the next few years will bring a lot of change, some good, some bad," he finished, as diplomatically as he could.

Lord Lestrade smiled as if he knew what John was thinking. "Yes, I agree."

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour and Lestrade roused himself from the relaxed mood reluctantly. "We should discuss this more. I was hoping to take you out to the crofts. I've just had several renovations made, wanted to ask you about hygiene, living conditions, things like that. Maybe if this rain clears in the afternoon or tomorrow."

"I'd like that."

"Good, good. Well, I have some business correspondence to take care of. Feel free to wander about. Lunch will be at one. We've some damn fine books in the library that might interest you. Please, make yourself at home."

John smiled, thinking that Carlton Hall was nothing like his mother's house in Surrey or his own house in London. "I think I will take a look in the library."

"Please do."

"Thank you." He rose and almost forgot to take his copy of the papers as he left the room.

Sherlock sat at the long servant's table polishing silver. He wore black sleeve guards and white gloves. It had not been a good morning.

He couldn't stop thinking about John—the heat of his body, the taste of his skin—and it was distracting. Distraction was dangerous. Molly the parlour maid had teased him, "Why, Mr. Holmes, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you had a love interest, the way you're staring off into space! Couldn't be someone in the household, could it?" she'd asked hopefully. He knew that she had a bit of a crush on him, had even made use of that knowledge on occasion.

Preoccupied, he'd taken down the wrong trays to polish and Gregson caught him just before he began.

"Mr. Holmes! This isn't like you at all. I don't want to have to reprimand you. Are your extra valet duties taxing you?"

"No, sir," he'd replied. "I…misunderstood. It won't happen again."

Even Mrs. Turner had tutted around him, asking if he was feeling poorly or feverish.

Then there was Anderson.

Unfortunately Anderson had heard Molly's taunt, and Sherlock could almost hear cogs turning rustily in Anderson's head as he strove to make a connection between Sherlock's appearance the night before and his current behavior.

"A love interest?" he smirked, as he walked through the kitchen to get to the stillroom for the afternoon and evening spirits. "That would explain your walking in the garden in the wee hours. Who is she? Some barmaid from town?"

"I thought that drunken and blowsy women were your area of expertise, Anderson. Particularly ones who want to be paid after." Taunting Anderson, always a pleasure, took his mind off of John at least momentarily.

Anderson snarled, "What do you—" but then pulled himself back. "I'll find out soon enough and you'll be sorry. I have my ways," he continued, trying to sound mysterious and wise but only succeeding in sounding childish.

Suddenly his eyes lit up, "No…it couldn't be. Could it be someone _upstairs_?"

Sherlock frowned, "Mind yourself, Anderson. If Mr. Gregson or Mrs. Turner catches you speaking of the Lord and his family and guests that way…well, I wouldn't give tuppence for your continued employment." He wasn't worried that Anderson would make the actual connection and, sure enough, Anderson continued.

"Let's see, who's upstairs now.? That actress? I've heard things about what they get up to in London. Mrs. Charles? Ugh, Holmes! Though with that queer little husband of hers, I wouldn't be surprised that she'd take a bit of rough.

"Not that wretched niece." Sherlock glared at Anderson. "Oh-ho! I always thought you were a bit too nice to her and her sisters."

"Anderson," said Sherlock in a low, menacing voice, "stop now before I have to make you stop."

"Mind you," Anderson went on blithely, "I know some things about her Ladyship that might…well, let's just say—"

"Let's say what about her Ladyship?" asked Mr. Gregson, coming into the kitchen. He frowned. "Haven't you decanted that wine yet? We have a full house; I can't have the two of you failing in your duties because of your animosity."

"Yes, Mr. Gregson," replied Anderson sullenly, but he gave Sherlock a glare as he went to fetch the wine.

Sherlock resumed his polishing, pondering the meaning of Anderson's last, cryptic remark.

At lunch John was able to observe the ladies. The seating was a bit haphazard as there were only twelve at table and John ended up once again next to Dame Agatha, Lord Lestrade's anti-suffragette aunt who was querulous as ever, complaining as if the rain had been sent deliberately to thwart her. Lady Alice, Lord Lestrade's wife, proposed Whist in the drawing room after lunch.

Lord and Lady Lestrade made a handsome couple. She was tall for a woman, with a rich mass of coppery-gold hair. Her nose was a too little long to be considered pretty, but she was still striking, with a quietly commanding presence.

The cousins he still wasn't sure from which side of the family it seemed were named Charles. Mrs. Charles was a small, not unattractive woman going towards portly, who said little and seemed nervous to be there. She matched her husband, who was slight with the kind of face that would have been almost feminine in his youth but became less attractive in middle age. John tried to engage her in conversation, but her only topic of interest seemed to be her children, and even about them she said only a few words.

The actor's wife, an actress herself, went by her stage name of Larkin and insisted that everyone call her Jane in the modern way. She was not pretty but was tremendously vivacious in that way some women have that makes them seem more beautiful than they actually are. She spent lunch telling amusing anecdotes about other famous people she knew, including the King. Dame Agatha told John in a stage whisper that she thought Mrs. Duncaster vulgar.

Lady Louisa, the Lord's and Lady's daughter, was as lovely as her mother, with russet hair swept up in a thick pile on her head in what, in John's youth, would have been called a Gibson Girl style. To her mother's obvious disapproval, she managed to sit herself next to her fiancé and they spent most of lunch giggling together.

The last member of the party was a young woman, pleasant looking but not remarkable, with mousy brown hair and a narrow face. John barely remembered seeing her the night before. Her name began with a C…Catherine…Christina?

"Caroline," said Lady Lestrade to the young woman, "if the weather clears, why don't you take Dr. Watson for a tour of the garden after lunch? Or perhaps some of the house if the weather remains poor."

"Of course, Aunt Alice. I would be delighted." She gave John a sappy smile, and then, when Lady Lestrade had turned back to Mr. Duncaster, she pursed her lips and crossed her eyes. She then grinned almost conspiratorially. John had no idea what to make of it.

It continued to rain, although it seemed lighter and less windy when they retired to the drawing room and sorted into foursomes to play. Lord Lestrade and Sir Neville excused themselves on business, leaving an extra pair, which was fine by John as he barely knew the rules of the game. He sat out next to Lady Caroline on the couch.

"Hullo, Doctor Watson," she said brightly. "I'm Lady Caroline Easton. We met last night, but I'm afraid that I didn't make much of an impression on you since you didn't speak to me the rest of the evening."

"Er, I'm sorry," said John, "new to all this…names and nobility and…" he trailed off because she was grinning at him again.

She glanced out the window and then leant in to him conspiratorially, "It's not raining that hard. If you don't mind getting a bit wet, we can get out of here. What do you say?"

John smiled at her peculiar charm, "Alright."

"Oh, Doctor Watson," she exclaimed to the room, "I think it would be marvelous to walk in the garden now."

"Caroline," said Lady Lestrade with a sigh, but she seemed resigned, "if the Doctor doesn't mind. But stay on the path, the grass will be wet."

"Of course, Aunt Alice!" she smiled and led John to the door. As they passed into the hall, he heard her mutter, "Of course it will be sodding wet, it's sodding raining. Any idiot can see that."

She must have pressed a bell, because suddenly Sherlock was there, ready to help them into coats and hats.

Sherlock caught John's eye for a few seconds beyond what was usual before he turned to hand Lady Caroline her hat.

John was relieved to see that Caroline wore a sensible walking skirt and boots as his sister did, rather than the fashionable hobble skirts. Her dark blue hat was a simple flat affair with only a bit of ribbon trim. She turned to the large hall mirror to pin it on as Sherlock helped John into his overcoat. John felt Sherlock's fingers brush his neck and had to shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Caroline was looking inquisitively at him in the mirror.

Sherlock rapidly moved to help her into her coat and to hand them both umbrellas.

"Thank you, Holmes," she said, "We won't be long. Do you think we could get some hot toddies in the pink room when we return?"

"Of course, Lady Caroline."

"Doctor Watson?" she prompted, stepping out onto the front steps and opening her umbrella. "Now the main part of the house was built in…"

John gave Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze as he took the umbrella and hurried after her.

"…but the garden and the east wing weren't completed until 1748," she was saying when he caught up with her.

She stopped speaking abruptly, glanced about, although no one else was out in the drizzle, and pulled a cigarette case from her coat pocket.

"Dear Lord, please tell me you have a light," she exclaimed as she put one to her lips.

John laughed as he pulled his own case and lighter from his pocket. "Is this what this was all about? An elaborate scheme so that you could smoke?"

"Partially. But I did want to talk to you. You're new." She tilted her head back, inhaled deeply and then blew smoke into the top of her umbrella.

They walked down the steps into the garden.

"He is lovely to look at, isn't he?" she said sharply.

John started, "I'm sorry. Who?"

"The footman. Your valet. Holmes."

John blinked rapidly and licked his lips to buy time. "He does his job well."

She laughed loudly, "Oh, come off it. You can't keep your eyes off him."

John tried to look as neutral as possible and not let his alarm show.

"Oh, don't worry! I'm not going to tell anyone," she went on, "Why would I? And anyway, it's not really that obvious." She leant in so that her face was under John's umbrella, "I only noticed because I always look at him when I'm here and I was looking at you last night because you were new, and I saw that you couldn't stop staring."

John suspected that he should give some sort of denial, but he was afraid that anything he did say would give himself away further, so he said nothing as she pulled back and they continued walking.

Suddenly she exclaimed, "I bet he'd be marvelous to shag."

John choked on his cigarette, dropped it and ground out the stub to cover his confusion.

"Don't act so shocked. I know all kinds of things. This is the twentieth century. You do want to shag him, don't you?" she exclaimed airily

John looked up at her and struggled to say something. "I'm sure that I don't know what you're talking about. It's not really a topic of conversation that we should…I mean I don't think Lady…your Aunt…"

She giggled, "Your eyes! They're as big as plates and you're…you're blushing! You're quite cute when you do that. Why are you…" she trailed off and her eyes went wide at whatever was going on with John's face. He wasn't sure he knew anymore.

"Oh, GOSH! You have shagged him! Jolly good on you. Was it marvelous? Are you going to shag him again tonight?" Her look seemed to say that this was the best news she'd heard all day.

Furious and panicked now, John grabbed her arm. "Look, I don't know what you think…"

But she only took his arm in a companionable way and pulled him further along the path, "I think it's lovely. You mustn't worry on my account, but try not to go all mushy-eyed when you look at him in front of other people. I doubt most of them would notice or they would more likely think you were ogling the artwork, but there are some who might pick up on it. Some of the other servants are a bit rotten."

John blew out a long breath. "I'm not saying you're right, but it seems a little odd that you're so keen."

She smiled up at him. "My sisters and I had such enormous crushes on him when we were young. Although he must have only been only nineteen or twenty when we were children. It's funny isn't it. The way everyone who's older than you seems impossibly old and then suddenly, there you are. You're the age they were when you met them and it doesn't seem old at all. Well, not for a boy. I'm already hopeless." She looked away wistfully for a moment.

She pulled on his arm again to keep walking, "Anyway, when you shag him tonight, give him a good one from the Easton sisters: Margaret, Caroline and Marie. He'll know who we are. He always remembers things. He was very nice to us when we were children even though we must have been a terrible nuisance. He would get us sweets and biscuits from the kitchen, and if we'd been sent to bed for something naughty well, that was mainly me he'd make sure I got a sandwich or something. I liked to pretend I was a prisoner in a tower and he was smuggling food to me because he was in love with me.

"Marie and I, Mags was a bit too old, used to imagine that he was a prince in a fairytale who'd been cursed to work as a servant because he was too marvelous, or that he _wanted_ to be a servant so he could learn about his subjects, and that when we were older he would declare he was in love with us—we took turns who it would be—and how he didn't want his throne if he couldn't have us. Then as we got older, the three of us decided that he must be the illegitimate son of some lord and the lord had really been in love with his beautiful mother but had to marry someone in his own class and on her deathbed his mother told him his true lineage but he was too good to do anything about it. But one day the lord's wife would die and he wouldn't have an heir, so he'd have to come find the son he'd always loved and he would get to go and live in a great house and he'd take us all with him and we'd all live there happily. We were a bit vague on what exactly marriage entailed."

They came to a bench and, even though it was wet, she sat down. The rain had petered off and John took her umbrella and his to shake them off in the shrubbery before joining her.

"You do know what you're talking about is illegal, don't you?"

She looked keenly sideways at him for a moment. "Don't…be like them…think that just because I'm careless I don't have sense." She looked forward again and went on in a low voice.

"My sister, Mags, Lady Margaret, had a friend like the two of you. She'd known him since they were small. They loved each other and everyone thought they'd get married, but he told her that he didn't want her to marry him because he'd never be able to love her the way she deserved to be loved. She tried to tell him that it didn't matter because they got on so well, and that they'd figure out something about children, and that she'd let him have whomever he wanted, but he thought it was unfair to her. He went abroad so that there wouldn't be any scandal, but it still taints you. She's got a fiancé now. She doesn't love him and they have nothing in common, but she tells me that they like one another and that's enough and someday she'll have children of her own and it won't matter. She's twenty-two, so she rather has to take what she can, or so my mother and aunt say. And he's got loads of money. Mummy and Daddy married for love and look where that got them. Neither with a penny, just a dilapidated castle on the edge of the world. We have to marry money, but we've titles to spare." There was an unexpected quiet sadness in her voice as she spoke.

"I'm sorry," John offered. He didn't know about these things. While he couldn't really feel more sorry for them than, say, the farmers who would eke out livings in the crofts Lord Lestrade had mentioned, he realized that for the women at least, the fancy dresses and parties were as much a duty to be borne as a pleasure, and sometimes a hard one. It made him think again of how things needed to change.

She looked at him appraisingly with her dark-colored, intelligent eyes. "Well, Mags had to marry money, but she's so beautiful that it was easy. And Marie is very pretty so will probably do well when she comes out next year.

She studied his face, considering and frowned, "Do you know why you were invited here, Dr. Watson?"

"To sign some papers."

"Oh, then maybe not."

"Not what?"

She stood up and started walking along the edge of the path, arms extended as if she were walking a tightrope, like a child.

"My coming out was an utter disaster. I tripped on my train and almost fell into the King's lap when I was presented and then nothing was going with the boys. I mean, I had fun. I love to dance and ride and go to the theater and the fellows all said I was great fun, only not in the way that a girl is supposed to be great fun. Perhaps if I'd been more fun that way I'd be engaged, but it seemed so horrible to have all those chinless boys with their little bits of mustache trying to kiss me."

She walked back towards him, still on her imaginary line, "I thought you might have been brought here for me."

"What? You mean as a suitor? But I haven't got any money."

"At this point they'd just like to get me married off to someone, _anyone_, so they can concentrate on Marie's prospects. I'm always talking about wanting adventure so they probably thought, 'Oh, here's this distant relation, and he's been abroad; maybe she'll be happy with that.' Or, even better, 'Maybe he'll take her back out to—," India, was it?"

"Yes, India."

"'Back out to India, and we'll be rid of her.'"

John stood and started walking with her, "It can't be quite that bad, can it?"

"You have no idea," she said, but she smiled as she said it.

"How was this match-making supposed to be arranged? Was I to fall wildly in love with you in your mauve—it was mauve, wasn't it—dress last night?"

She laughed and they started walking back towards the house, "No, that was only my second-best frock. Tonight I shall be wearing blue, and I'll bet you'll be sat next to me at dinner. Aunt Alice is probably peering out the window at us right now."

"Well, I promise to be very complimentary of your dress."

"I thought I should warn you so that you'll remember to look at me some, in between looking at him."

John laughed, "Sorry, I'm not quite the marrying kind. Bit of bad luck, I'm afraid. Anyway, you're a pleasure to look at."

She lowered her eyes, "Oh, I know I'm nothing special, and not being your type is a bit of a relief."

"Another smoke?" John offered and lit them both.

"I don't want to marry at all," she sighed. "Or not for a long time. I want to be an explorer and travel the world and maybe be a photographer and take lots of handsome lovers and then, when I've seen everything, maybe when I'm fifty, I'll marry someone who's always been my good friend and he and I will go and live in Africa or Australia."

She blushed and looked down at her shoes, "You must think me awfully foolish."

"No, just young."

"That's almost worse."

"Well, one grows out of being young, but some people never grow out of being foolish."

"True," she smiled. "And now for those hot toddies, and I shall look away if he brings them if you want to have a quick kiss or two."

As they approached the front of the house, the rain started up again in earnest, and they had to make a dash for it. This time it was Gregson the butler who appeared to take their coats and umbrellas. John's disappointment must have shown because Caroline made another funny face at him, squnching up her nose in amusement.

The pink room turned out to be a medium-sized room rather overstuffed with furniture in a mid-Victorian way. There was a high fire in the grate and Caroline sat on a footstool to dry her shoes in its heat. A parlour maid appeared with the toddies on a tray and silently disappeared again, blushing at John's attempt to take the tray and to thank her.

Almost immediately their repose was disturbed by the sound of raised voices in the hall.

Caroline put her finger to her lips, crept to the door, opened it a fraction and peered out. John joined her. He felt like a child again, listening at doorways to the grown-ups.

"You know I can make this difficult for you, Gregory," Grenville was saying.

"You can try," came Lord Lestrade's steely tone. "But given your creditors, I doubt that your word will hold much sway in London."

"Anyway," continued Grenville in what was clearly meant to be a dismissive tone, but sounded whiney in his higher voice, "I don't know why you're being so obstinate. It could turn out very well for you."

"Really? Tell that to Donald Charles. I have my children to consider. And my wife. Not to mention this house and its history."

"Your wife. Speak with your wife. I'm sure she will have something different to say."

The voices disappeared down the hall. Caroline shut the door silently and went back to the fire.

"Ugh, that horrid, horrid man."

"Lord Lestrade?" asked John surprised.

"No, no, Uncle Gregory is marvelous. No, Sir Neville. He's…unpleasant in lots of ways. Aunt Alice detests him, although she and Mummy were his wards for a while their father was… She only has him here because he has some business deals with Uncle. The business arrangements were part of the marriage agreement since she had nothing else to offer."

Again John was struck by how these upper-class marriages seemed to be nothing more than monetary transactions with the women as the merchandise.

"At least I don't have to be near him anymore and Mags and I made sure that…" she trailed off.

John leant into her. He had an queasy feeling that he knew what she was saying. At his practice, he'd seen young women who had unpleasant older male relations.

"Made sure what, Caroline?" He realized that he hadn't used her title, but she didn't seem to notice.

She wiggled her feet at the fire, clearly uncomfortable in a way that she hadn't been in the garden. "He…he can be…it was unpleasant to be embraced by him, or even to be helped from a carriage. After, after Mags and I were older, we made sure that someone else helped Marie."

John sat back, "But surely you told your Aunt, your mother."

She looked at him. "Of course, and they knew, but what can one do? Anything they have of their own is because of him."

She shuddered, "I wouldn't want to be a maid in his household."

"Oh, God," John groaned at the thought. "Is there nothing to be done?"

"Not really. Stay away from him, Doctor Watson. Don't get involved. He isn't rich, but he has a lot of friends."

John nodded. He knew how hard it was to prosecute any of that behavior. Unconsciously he clenched and unclenched his fists in frustration.

**_Red_chapel mentioned that footnotes might not go amiss, particularly for the political situations. _**  
><em>In 1912 several of the small countries of Europe, including Bulgaria and Serbia went to war in what became the First Balkan war. Turkey asked for the larger countries (England, France, Germany, Russia) to broker a peace. This resulted in the London Peace Treaty in the spring of 1913. A month later the Second Balkan war broke out, this time with Russia declaring war on Bulgaria.<em>  
><em>In November, Gandhi was arrested leading a strike of Indian miners in South Africa. Interestingly, Gandhi used the term "Khaffir" for the Muslims there, in a derogatory way. South Africa has refused to honor him ever since.<em>


	4. A Moment of Love and a Flash of Anger

John sat in his room with his portable writing desk in his lap, answering correspondence and organizing case notes from the week before. The mahogany desk had been his father's and had served them both long and well. It bore its scratches and scuffs with dignity. The steady rain had turned the sky dark which made it seem later than it was.

He glanced up as the door opened and smiled when Sherlock slipped in, but he was startled by Sherlock's reaction.

"Oh, Doctor…John," Sherlock exclaimed. "I didn't expect to find you here."

Setting the desk aside, John rose and crossed the room. "Where should I be?"

Sherlock smiled, surprised again at John's ignorance of what was expected in the great houses. "I just thought you were still downstairs in the drawing room with the other guests."

"Oh," John looked worried. "Will I be missed? Have I committed some terrible faux pas? Dame Agatha went to rest in her room and Lady Caroline was conscripted to make up the foursome. I don't play."

Sherlock moved to meet John in the middle of the room. "Not missed per se, but the men usually don't return to their rooms. I'm sure you will be forgiven." He reached out to stroke John's cheek tenderly.

John returned the favor, running his thumb along Sherlock's cheekbones and slipping his fingers into Sherlock's curls. "Then why are you here? If not to see me?"

Sherlock shut his eyes and leant into John's caress. "Doing my duty, John. The housemaids check the rooms, but I usually make sure that nothing has been missed."

"Room's still here. What do you need to check?"

"Stir the fire, turn up the gas and draw the curtains if necessary. Check that the beds have been changed and fresh towels supplied."

"My God, all that. Well, as you can see, I am perfectly capable of stirring the fire, turning up the light and drawing my own curtains. Perhaps we can find some other use for your time…"

"John, I told you—," Sherlock protested, but he didn't move away from John's hand.

"How long could you take…how long would you usually take? Before you'd be missed?"

"Fifteen minutes, perhaps thirty if I thought the room needed something or if I said that I'd checked the other rooms… But I told you, I can't muss my clothes. It will be noticed."

"Well," returned John, "perhaps, if we do this—." He pushed Sherlock's coat from his shoulders, took it and hung it in the wardrobe. "And this—," he whispered as he unbuttoned the striped waistcoat, slipped it off and hung it with the coat. "Then your clothes won't be mussed and no one will know that I've done this…" He pulled Sherlock's mouth to his and slid his hand along the front of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock was already achingly hard just from John's voice, and when John touched him he whimpered.

"In fact," John was continuing, voice low and soothing, "I think we should take off your trousers, too, so that they won't become wrinkled when I kneel and take your prick in my mouth. What do you think?"

"Oh," was all that Sherlock could manage, his extensive vocabulary gone. He suspected that every bell in the house could ring at that moment, including the one signaling fire, and he'd be unable to _recall_ his duty, let alone respond.

John chuckled and pushed Sherlock's braces down, unfastened Sherlock's trouser buttons, slipped them down with the drawers and worked them over the patent leather slippers. Standing back up he reached for Sherlock's tie, but Sherlock stopped him.

"No, I lost a stud last night. I've only got one more." Already the collar felt tight against his Adam's apple, but he knew he'd lose all reason if John kissed his neck.

John nodded, but smiled sadly as if reading Sherlock's mind. He led the half-naked younger man to the bed and sat him down before going to hang the trousers over the butler stand.

Sherlock's excitement hadn't waned. If anything, it was more pronounced, jutting up flushed dark between his pale legs.

As he knelt, John made an appreciative noise as though he were gazing on a work of art. He pushed Sherlock's thighs open and settled himself between them.

"John…John…I thought you wanted it to be mutual. I'm not sure if we'll have time for…"

"Shh…" John whispered as he stroked along Sherlock's calves. "You have to wait on me. I'm just returning the favor in the only way that I have." With that he gripped Sherlock's prick at the base and wrapped his mouth around it, working his lips down to take most of the length down his throat.

Sherlock's breath came in short, hard gasps as John worked him, tongue at the tip, around the head, all heat and suction along the shaft. John cupped his testicles and stroked along his perineum until he was thrusting his hips forward to meet John movements. He slipped his fingers through John's short hair, trying not to push greedily.

It didn't take long until his climax took him, leaving his legs shaking, the tension in his muscles releasing all at once so that he fell back onto the bed with a groan.

He wasn't even aware that John had risen until the other man was back with a glass of water and a flannel. As John gently wiped the sweat from his face, he thought to himself sadly, 'John Watson, you have ruined my life with your kindness more thoroughly than Peter ever did with his callousness because what will I do when you are gone?'

* * *

><p>After reluctantly parting from John, Sherlock went to his room and splashed his face and hair. He still looked flushed and his eyes had a glassy sheen. He hoped it wouldn't be too obvious.<p>

The maids were hoovering in the great hall and Anderson and Dimmock were moving the furniture. Sherlock tried to join the work without being noticed. He was shifting a table with Dimmock when Anderson strode over, a smirk on his unpleasant face.

"Glad you decided to join us, Holmes."

"I was checking the rooms, Anderson. Ensuring that everything is at its best. Something you wouldn't understand. Doctor Watson had me brush out his evening clothes."

Anderson sneered, "Ah yes, Doctor Watson. Did you know he's only from some forgotten little branch of the family? It shows in his manners—leaving the drawing room early, sitting in his room, taking Lady Caroline for a walk in the rain, of all things. Mind you, she was always a wretched trouble-maker, sneaking about and spying on everyone. So unladylike."

Sherlock tried to bite his tongue even though he wanted to defend John. At least he could defend Lady Caroline. "Anderson—"

"That's _Mister_ Anderson to you."

"That's the second time you've insulted Lady Caroline in my presence. Lady Caroline is a member of Lord Lestrade's family. I'll not have you besmirching her name. When you do, you insult Lord and Lady Lestrade."

Anderson snorted. By this point they had both stopped working and were facing one another in the middle of the room. Dimmock and the maids were frozen, watching the confrontation. It had been coming for months, probably years.

"_Lady_ Lestrade," Anderson snarled. "That whole family is a disgrace. Not Sir Neville, mind you. He's of the old school and knows how to carry himself."

The parlour maids glanced at one another. It was well known that no maid would tend to Sir Neville's room without a footmen present. Even Sally, one of Anderson's only friends, looked uncomfortable.

Sherlock shut his eyes, wondering how far he should take it. The rational part of his mind told him to back down. Challenging Anderson could only lead to trouble. But John's confidence in him made him bold. "I should have known, _Mister_ Anderson, that you admire the worst traits in people. Lady Lestrade, Lady Caroline, Doctor Watson—you shouldn't even be allowed to say their names. Shut your mouth before I have to shut it for you."

"I'd like to see you try, Holmes."

He and Sherlock started to circle one another.

Suddenly Mr. Gregson's voice rang out in the hall. "Mister Anderson, Mister Holmes! You will stop this this instant." Beth Ann, one of the housemaids, was cowering behind him and Mrs. Turner was following. Beth Ann must have gone to fetch them.

Gregson strode between them. "Anderson, Holmes, I've spoken to both of you about your issues with one another. If you cannot reconcile your differences, then one of you must go. Mr. Anderson, continue your work here. Mister Holmes, you will help Violet with the mangle downstairs."

Anderson narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and smirked. Tending the mangle with the kitchen maids was a demeaning task and they both knew it.


	5. Proposals and Solutions

Violet, one of the scullery maids, was wrangling bed linens into the mangle when Sherlock entered the room.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes. Come to help us? I'll be glad of it today. Such a lot of sheets to get through. What they get up to upstairs, I don't know."

Sherlock suppressed a smile. What they got up to upstairs, indeed. If she only knew.

Violet was a cheerful girl, whose small stature belied her strength.

"Good it's you come down. Poor little Dimmock. He do try, but he's a-like to drop 'em as lift 'em. And Anderson, pah! Thinks he's Mr. Gregson, Mrs. Turner and the Lord Mayor all rolled into one. Sitting on his backside and issuing orders. You're an odd fish, if you don't mind my saying, but at least you do work hard."

She fed a sheet for Sherlock to crank through the machine. "And more this evening, I don't know. Still, many hands make light work, as me mum says." She grinned at him.

"Have Mr. and Mrs. Darling arrived?" he asked as he turned the handle.

"Not that I know, but little reaches us down here." She leant in conspiratorially, "You know what they say?"

"No?" Although Sherlock worked hard to remain an enigma to the maids—it was easier that way—he relied on their gossip for valuable information.

"That she wants a baby more-in life, but that Mr. Darling done some wicked things in his youth and they don't take. Such a shame."

"Indeed." He'd heard variations of this tale before. Births interested him little and he could think of no real use for past scandals.

He focused on the task at hand with only half an ear turned towards her prattle until it was time to go and dress John for dinner.

Despite the earlier unpleasantness with Anderson, Sherlock was practically humming when he came down from dressing John, having left the doctor to recover. He could still taste John on his tongue.

He went to the small drawing room to check that the bottles had all been refreshed and that there were sufficient glasses in appropriate sizes. Still lost in thoughts of John, he went to draw the curtains and let his head rest against the cold of the window. 'These should have already been drawn,' he thought to himself, but it was a distant concern.

He was so lost in his happiness that he missed hearing the door to the room open and close. It wasn't until the door opened again and he heard Lord Lestrade exclaim, "Good gracious, I'm alone with my wife!" that he realized he was trapped behind the curtain. Should he step out now and announce himself? But that would that reveal his laxness in letting himself woolgather at the window. It was early for both of them to be in the room. Perhaps they would leave again and he could get away.

Thinking themselves alone, the couple embraced. No one who saw the Lestrades together could doubt their love for one another. The look that came over Lord Lestrade's face when he watched his wife without her knowing was so tender it was practically heartbreaking, but both were too well-versed in societal mores to let themselves indulge in physical contact in front of others.

"How are the guests, my dear?" his Lordship asked as he pulled away to go to the drinks table. "Sherry?"

"What I would really like is a whiskey, but it wouldn't do for your Aunt to think your wife is a lush. It would be all over London by the middle of the week and where would we be then?" Lady Lestrade settled herself comfortably on the sofa.

"I thought you were enjoying yourself," Lord Lestrade said as he poured himself a small whiskey and a sherry for his wife, "I know that the Charleses can be a bit trying now that things aren't going well. He asked me for money again, by the way. I want to help for their children's sake, but he brought this mess on himself." Lestrade joined his wife on the sofa and they leant into one another in easy familiarity.

By now it was impossible for Sherlock to escape. He was witnessing an intimate moment and stepping out would embarrass them all. He wondered if he could slip out when other guests came in.

"Well, Tom and Jane are always good fun. Did the Darlings arrive safely?"

"Yes, Clare and Miller arrived. They're resting in their room and may not join us until dinner."

"Who do I have at my end?"

"Jane and Louisa."

"Well, thank God for that. You saddled me with Aunt Agatha last night," said Lestrade teasingly. "She was in high dudgeon."

"Oh dear, what now? I do wish we didn't have to have her so often. She is so…wearisome. I never know what to do with her. She doesn't like any of our friends." She sighed.

From behind the curtain Sherlock noticed her strained tone of voice. Ordinarily weekend guests seemed to give her pleasure, and she was a lively hostess. She had seemed distracted for some time and the maids had had no insight into her mood.

"I know, dear. But she's family, and she is harmless, really. She has a good heart underneath her crust."

"Speaking of family, what do you think of Doctor Watson?" she asked.

Sherlock strained to hear more about the Lestrade's opinion of John. If the Lord and Lady enjoyed John's company, he might be invited back.

Lord Lestrade seemed to consider for a moment, "He seems quite a sensible fellow. Bit of a Bolshie, but seems fair. His father was always crusading and his sister's been part of those suffragette protests. Still, I'd rather a man with passion than a milksop like Malvern. Dear Lord, Lou could do better. I know we agreed to let the children choose who they wanted within reason, but what does she see in him?"

Lady Lestrade chuckled, "Ah, I don't think that any man will ever be good enough for your girls."

"What do you mean?" said the Lord, sounding affronted. "I quite like Lizzy's husband."

"Oh, you! You didn't at first. As I recall, you told her that she should give up all hope of fun such as music and theater because bankers were simply adding machines and he'd never take her anywhere nice."

"Did I really? I must not have known him well at that point."

"They'd been engaged for four months. I think you only like him now because he's going to make you a grandfather. That and the fact that he gave Peter a job."

"Emm, Peter, yes..." There was a tone of something in the Lord's voice that Sherlock couldn't pinpoint. It wasn't disappointment, exactly. Despite a slight waywardness (and Sherlock was sure that his Lordship was unaware of the full extent of that) Peter had made a decent showing at university. He had floundered a bit after leaving, but no more than most young men of his station. Sherlock had never been privy to the Lestrade's opinions of their children and he hoped that they might go on. However, the conversation seemed to have petered out as the Lestrades became aware of the time and the likelihood of being joined by their guests. They parted to take up their respective places, separate from one another.

There was the sound of the door opening and Dimmock entered, followed by Dame Agatha, Lady Louisa and Mr. Malvern.

Sherlock took his chance to step out as Dimmock walked by, but Lady Lestrade caught his eye as he slipped into his place and he knew that she had seen.

'I must not look at him, I must not look at him,' John thought as he steeled himself before entering the drawing room. Fortunately, Lady Caroline swept up to him as he walked in. True to her word she was wearing a beaded evening gown in dark blue.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson. Would you care for a drink before dinner?" she asked politely, but John could see the little smirk in her smile. He didn't think his afternoon activities showed on either his face or Sherlock's, but he really couldn't be sure.

She led him to the drinks table where the younger footman was serving, Lord Lestrade being occupied with two people John hadn't seen before.

He and Caroline made their way to an empty sofa. He noticed that the group seemed to be leaving them alone. Had everyone been advised of the matchmaking?

"Who are the new guests?"

"Friends of Aunt Alice's, Clare and Miller Darling. She's known Mummy and Aunt Alice forever, and he went to school with Uncle Gregory, but I don't think they were friends there.

"You've met Mr. and Mrs. Charles. They always seem so sad. And then Mr. Malvern. Louisa's a bit silly. I think that they'll be very happy together. Then the actors. They say that they both have tons of lovers! Perhaps I'll be an actress. What do you think?"

John shook his head and laughed. "I think you'd be marvelous. You are quite delightfully mad, you know. I almost wish that I could marry you."

"Oh, Doctor Watson. We _should_ get married!"

"We've been over that," John chided.

"It would be a sort of cover. If they really are going to marry me off to someone horrid, you'll rescue me, won't you?"

"Alright. I'll rescue you if you need it. But you really are quite resourceful. I don't think that you'll need anyone to rescue you, really."

She beamed at him.

He and Caroline continued to chat amiably until Lady Lestrade signaled that it was time to go in to dinner. He rose and offered his arm, "Lady Caroline?"

"Doctor Watson."

As she had predicted, they were seated side-by-side, although he was surprised that he was also next to Lady Lestrade. He found her a pleasant woman, although her conversation was clearly geared towards finding out his qualities and his possible intentions towards her niece. She asked about his time in the army and what he thought of India much as his Lordship had. It seemed that Caroline might have been right about their hopes that he take her back with him.

He spoke of his family, with Caroline listening keenly on his other side.

"Is your sister really a suffragette?" asked Caroline. "Does she march and protest?"

"Yes. She believes most strongly and I agree. I know many women I would trust with the vote over many men."

"I'd like to be a suffragette."

"Caroline!" exclaimed Lady Lestrade.

"Well, I would," Caroline exclaimed rather indignantly.

"It isn't…" Lady Lestrade paused, uncertain how to be most polite.

"It's alright, Lady Lestrade. I know the views are not popular," John interjected to put her at ease.

"No, it's…I believe very strongly that women should have the vote. I have three daughters after all. I just fear…that the suffragettes with their protests make it look like mere rabble rousing."

"I understand completely. I admit that after Miss Davison died my mother and I sat down with my sister and asked her not to put herself deliberately in danger. Of course, Miss Davison seems to have been a little mad, but still, women are starving themselves in jail. Harriet hasn't been arrested, yet, and God willing it won't come to that. But my father always taught us that certain things must be fought for, and I cannot in good conscience censor her actions or attempt to control them."

Lady Lestrade nodded, smiling a little sadly. "I see you have found a fellow radical, Caroline. But…all I ask is that you be careful. You know that you have a great deal to lose, you and your sisters."

"Lady Lestrade, you must settle a dispute between myself and Mrs. Charles," Mr. Duncaster suddenly interrupted.

With a tender smile directed at both John and Caroline, Lady Lestrade turned to her right to join in Mr. Duncaster's conversation.

Caroline looked thoughtful for a moment, but then grinned at John and said, "I'd still like to meet your sister!"

John worked very hard to not look at Sherlock, not to breathe in when he was served so that he couldn't smell his skin. However, he obviously didn't do a good enough job, because Caroline kicked him in the shin with the side of her foot whenever she felt he was wandering.

He frowned at her in mock anger. "I fear that every time I look at him in the future, I'm going to rub my leg on reflex. You know, how that Russian scientist Pavlov has done with dogs."

"You do want to," she asked, eyes contemplative, "don't you? Look. In the future, for the rest of your life."

John dared a glance at where Sherlock was standing, so elegant and beautiful, so commanding. "Yes, I really think that I do."

After dinner Mr. Duncaster played several of the syncopated 'rags' that were coming over from America and Jane Larkin attempted to teach everyone the brand new dance, the Foxtrot, with mixed success. Even John was persuaded to join despite his protests of old war injuries, and he found himself with all of the women in his arms at some point except Dame Agatha. She perched on the settee, her expression clearly showing her displeasure in the new dances that required men and women to be in such close proximity.

Conversely, Sir Neville seemed to relish being able to get so close to all of the younger women, particularly Ladies Louisa and Caroline. Both seemed to shudder at his touch. At one point he leant over and whispered in Caroline's ear, a grimace that might have been a smile on his face. The look of disgust on her face was so violent that John rushed to rescue her. By the time he reached her she had already broken free.

"Caroline?" John whispered as he tried to sweep her away in the strange slow, slow, quick, quick that Jane had taught them. She shook her head, as if the very thought of repeating what he had said was too distasteful.

While John wasn't in the same state of nervous excitement as he had been the night before, he still would rather have been upstairs alone with Sherlock. Despite some amusing conversation with the Darlings, he was anxious for the night to end. The evening went on longer than the night before, and Dame Agatha retired before Lady Lestrade had tired of talking with her friends. At last she rose, signaling that those who wanted to could leave. John was admitting to Mr. Charles that he knew little of investments as his father had disapproved of speculation and couldn't pry himself away from the conversation as quickly as he would have liked. When he was finally able to go into the hall to climb the stairs, he found that most of the other guests had already retired.

However, Lady Caroline was standing by the staircase with a puzzled look on her face.

"Goodnight, Lady Caroline," John nodded as he started past her.

"Doctor Watson… I just saw…"

There was something in her voice that made John stop. "Lady Caroline?"

"I just saw Aunt Alice in a very peculiar conversation with that horrible footman, Anderson. She looked most upset."

John followed her gaze into the darkened end of the hall but could see nothing. "Should I fetch your uncle, do you think?"

"No, no…Aunt Alice can take care of herself. It's probably nothing, just something to do with the house." She turned and her face took on a knowing and mischievous gleam, "I know that you have _business_ to attend to, Doctor Watson. I won't keep you."

John felt himself blush, "You really are quite incorrigible, aren't you?"

"Remember," she said, leaning in to whisper, "A good one from me and my sisters." She all but winked at him and then went up the stairs.

When John reached his room, Sherlock was undoing his shirt buttons; coat, tie and waistcoat already neatly laid aside.

"You don't have to go iron my shirt, do you?" John asked, leaning back against the closed door as if he would prevent Sherlock from leaving by force if necessary.

"No, I managed to do it earlier when I pressed my evening clothes," Sherlock smiled, continuing to undress.

John was discarding his coat and tie as he crossed the room. He wouldn't need them again the next night, for some time in fact, so he didn't care if they ended up a crumpled mess. Not needing to fuss with his clothes meant that John was able to crawl naked into the bed that Sherlock had already turned down before Sherlock himself was fully undressed.

There was no need for a slow undressing of one another this time. They'd done that. 'It's as if we are a couple, long together,' thought Sherlock. 'Still eager, but with no need to be coy or seductive.'

Naked at last, he crawled up the bed to straddle John's hips and lean forward for a long and intimate kiss. John kissed and licked his neck until Sherlock felt pliant and relaxed, all of the days trials forgotten. With the application of a little oil, he slid himself down on John's rigid cock in one smooth motion with a breathy 'Oh' of pleasure. He leant back to rest his hands on John's thighs so that his body formed a taut arc, his head thrown back. The position pushed John's prick into that sensitive spot inside that made him writhe in delicious sensation. That, combined with John's murmurs of appreciation, his raw groans as Sherlock ground his hips down, and his touch—pressing his palm against Sherlock's abdomen, gripping Sherlock's thighs with his fingers—meant that Sherlock wasn't going to last long.

Their previous encounters through the day had been a tease, when what he wanted was this. John inside him, owning him, whispering his name. He gripped his own cock with his still-slick fingers and felt John's hand wrap around his to help stroke him to completion.

"Oh, God, John, OH!" he cried, frantic now, the tension in his body drawn tight as a bowstring, desperate for release.

He knew he was being too loud, but his orgasm seemed to go on forever, John's continued movements drawing it out until Sherlock was gasping, sobbing as he doubled over.

When he trusted himself to breathe without drowning he started to shift, only to realize that John was still hard inside him. "Oh, God, I thought you finished, I'm sorry," he moaned, feebly moving his hips to give John release.

"Shh, shh," John soothed, gently rubbing Sherlock's back and reaching to still his hips. "It's not quid pro quo. I'm all right. You're all right. Just breathe."

"But it's not healthy for a man to stop," Sherlock moaned again.

"Nonsense. Men just use that excuse to get what they want. Just breathe. This is perfect for now. Shh, shh. Your face, my God…"

"What? Do I …" he was too sensitive, too overwhelmed right then to process John's meaning.

"No, no. It's amazing. Just before, just as you climax, your eyes go so wide and your mouth forms this perfect 'O'. It's as if you're surprised each time it happens. I want to see you like that every day for the rest of my life."

That made them both stop moving. Sherlock pushed himself up onto his elbows so he could look into John's face. "Do you mean that? That you want to see me again? Will you come back?" He felt that he should know what John meant, but being with John seemed to make his brain go fuzzy in a not entirely good way. Did he dare hope that John felt as he did?

"Mean it? No, I don't want to see you again here. I doubt I'll be invited back, anyway. No, I…I want you…if you'll have me. I don't want to ever _stop_ seeing you. Don't you understand? I love you. I'm so in love with you I can barely stand it when you're in the room with me and I can't touch you, hold you."

John pushed a sweaty curl from Sherlock's flushed face, "If you were a woman I'd ask you to elope with me. Tonight. Wake that sleepy vicar and make him marry us.

"I'm not that religious, but I thank God that I've found this twice in my life. I can't believe that I've been so lucky."

Sherlock jerked himself away from John's body so quickly it hurt. He practically tumbled from the bed. 'It wasn't me,' he thought in despair. 'It was never me.' John was in love with a ghost that Sherlock happened to resemble. To his horror he felt his eyes smarting as he grabbed for his trousers where he'd lain them across the butler stand.

John was still struggling to get free from the bed. "What? Oh, stop! Please, what did I say?"

"I'm not him. I'll never be him," Sherlock snapped in a low voice.

Frantic to stop Sherlock's erratic flight, John lunged to catch the slender man in his arms. "Who? What? Oh." John pulled Sherlock back to sit on the edge of the bed, but Sherlock still clutched the trousers to his chest defensively.

"I know you're not him. I don't want you to be him. Shh… Yes, I loved him, and yes, I wish I'd had more time with him, but that's past now. You're amazing, more than amazing. And unique. I meant it when I said that I'd never met anyone like you before. I wanted you from the first moment I saw you on dress parade. And then when we spoke, you were so brilliant… so special, I knew I wanted so much more time with you. Oh, Sherlock, who hurt you so much to make you think that you're worth so little?" John finished, running a gentle finger along Sherlock's cheek.

Eyes still downcast, Sherlock put the trousers across his knees. "I just …I'm not… you…" He wasn't even sure what he wanted to say, just that he needed to express how much John had changed his life.

"Wait here," John said, moving quickly from the bed, his naked body pale in the dim gaslight. He dug about on the dresser for a moment and then returned to the bed where he pulled the trousers from Sherlock's hands and laid them aside. "Sherlock Holmes, with this… er, cufflink, I thee bind, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow."

Sherlock started to giggle and before long he and John were both laughing, all of the worry dissipating in the silliness of the gesture. Sherlock took the proffered cufflink. It was two flat, gold disks with the initials JW in a curling script, linked by a sturdy chain. "John Watson, you are mad, and I love you. I love you so much I feel like someone new, someone different from who I was yesterday."

"Shall we get back to the worshipping of your body? I think I'd rather like the quid for my quo now," John smiled, closing Sherlock's hand around the cufflink with his and leaning in for a deep kiss.

John laid Sherlock's trousers back on the stand. Sherlock placed the cufflink reverently on the bedside table and lay back, legs open and inviting, letting John crawl between them to take him again.

Later, John rested against Sherlock's chest and asked, "What do we do now, since I can't actually elope with you?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, "You could hire me as your valet. That would be perfect. I could come and live with you in London, no one would know…" He twisted to look at John's face, eyes glowing.

John rolled onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. "No, not as my valet. My views on personal servants are well known. I think my friends would be more shocked by my bringing you back as my valet than as my lover. No, it needs to be… How's your script? I know you speak Latin and French, anything else?"

"What are you thinking?" Things were progressing so fast, and so perfectly.

"With my new income, I could hire you as my secretary. I've often said that I'm hopeless with my records and accounts. And we could say that you're helping me write my memoirs of my time abroad. Does that suit you? I even have a little room in the attic. We could say that I'm letting it to you. You wouldn't sleep there, of course," he grinned.

Sherlock grinned too, but when he rolled to face John he was serious. "You're brilliant, you know that?"

"I muddle through," John laughed.

"John, I do want to help you, you know. I don't just want to be kept. I can keep books and let your patients in and take notes. It would be my pleasure."

"I'd like that. Working with you. I'd like to help you further your studies, too."

"In what?"

"Whatever you like. Languages, perhaps."

"I've always wanted to know more about chemistry and physics if I could. I love you."

"I love you, too."

"John?"

"Hmm?" Blissfully happy and relaxed, John was drifting off to sleep.

"No, it's nothing. Go to sleep."

John rolled back over to face him, "What? I want to know."

"Could I… do you… could I take you?"

"Oh! Do you want to? I'd like that, if you're wondering. I just wasn't sure if you did."

Sherlock laughed, "I wasn't sure if you did. Many don't."

"Come here."

John pulled Sherlock across him and gazed up at him. He ran a finger across Sherlock's soft lips. "Never be afraid to ask me anything." They kissed, and John shifted so that Sherlock could fit between John's legs, both becoming aroused again, sliding together with soft sighs and barely-breathed 'I love you's.' Sherlock took his time relaxing John, getting him ready, kissing his neck, his chest, stroking his prick to fullness, until he slipped inside him with a sigh.

He'd forgotten how tight it would be, how intense. It wasn't something he'd done often. A few times with Mickey, never with Peter or Sir Clive. But it felt so right with John, as if they were closing a circle.

As they curled together after, John asked, "How do we proceed? Do I ask Lord Lestrade if I can hire you?"

"I should probably give my notice. It will be less…curious. Tomorrow is Sunday, so Monday morning."

"How long will you give?"

"A month is customary."

"A MONTH!" John exclaimed. "I can't be apart from you for a month!"

Sherlock smiled. "Anything else would seem strange for both of us. I don't want to wait either, but it will fly by, what with Christmas coming."

"All right," John murmured unhappily, "but only a month. Then you can be with me at Christmas." He laughed suddenly.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"Lady Caroline will be so pleased. Though I'll have to break off my engagement with her."

"WHAT?" Sherlock sat up in alarm.

"Shh. It's all right. Lady Caroline and I had a most interesting chat in the garden. She is a very unusual girl."

"Yes, she is, but, but…you're not really engaged to her, are you?"

"No, no. I said that I'd rescue her if they tried to marry her to anyone horrible, be her ersatz fiancé, I suppose."

"John, no one heard you, did they? You know that offers of engagement are very serious for a young woman in Lady Caroline's position."

"No, we were off by ourselves. Apparently I was brought here to act as something of a suitor, but she seemed to know, or guessed about us—don't worry, she's quite happy about it—and I think we've become fast friends. You really do care about her, don't you?"

"You sound surprised?"

"Well, I wouldn't have thought that children would have been a part of your duties."

"Children are very useful, John. They see and hear far more than the adults realize. And Caroline was very observant, rather my own little spy. Hmm, knew about us… I suppose she would see that."

"She mentioned her sister's friend."

"I had heard that rumor from servants, but one can never be sure if it isn't just malicious gossip. I'm glad that you and Caroline are friends. She was always rather special and I fear, very misunderstood."

"She told me to give you a good one from her and her sisters."

"Did she really? Well, since it is an order from nobility, I suppose we must comply."


	6. Sixes and Sevens

As Sherlock dressed for chapel in his own black suit and tie, he was practically twirling with happiness. He had the utterly ludicrous desire to announce that he was engaged as though he were some silly housemaid who'd been courted by the milkman.

After leaving John dreamily murmuring that it was the nightingale and not the lark, he'd come up to his room and fallen asleep clutching John's cufflink so tightly that when he woke John's initials were impressed backwards on his palm. He slipped it into his pocket so that he could touch it throughout the day.

As usual, the staff gathered in the staff dining room to walk the length of the house to the chapel. Sherlock considered himself an atheist, had done since he'd first read the Bible and then compared it to the Latin version—the contradictions and mistranslations were appalling to his logical mind. But not to attend chapel was cause for dismissal. The only exception was the kitchen maid, Mary Rose, a strapping Geordie girl, who walked the three miles to town and back twice a week in all weather for Mass and confession. She had already set off some time before.

Sherlock looked around at the other servants. Now that he was about to leave them, he felt a deep fondness for them all: the girls in their Sunday hats, festooned with ribbons and trim left over from the ladies upstairs; Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Norris the cook, their motherly natures turned to the staff rather than children. Even Dimmock, often an object of Sherlock's derision for his clumsiness, seemed merely young and somewhat ill-suited for a footman. He knew that he had kept himself aloof from the other servants and was often mocked for his pompousness. He had resented it at times, but now he recognized it for a gentle form of affection. He was leaving this. He was a servant no longer, at least in his heart, and soon not even in name. Most of them would never have this opportunity. Most of them wouldn't even have the chance to love or to marry, dependent always on the benevolence of their masters.

'John's rubbing off on me,' he thought. 'He should take a soapbox to the Speaker's Corner and inspire a revolution. Of course,' he thought with a smirk, 'he can hardly seduce everyone to convince them of his views.'

The servants took chapel at seven in the morning and returned to dress the house at eight for the family and guests to attend chapel at ten. They always went together.

"Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Gregson, "do you know where Mr. Anderson is?"

Sherlock bit back the urge to say that he didn't know, didn't care and hoped he'd dropped dead. "I don't know, sir." He paused, "We don't apprise one another of our whereabouts at all times. Sir."

Gregson looked askance at Sherlock. He had spoken to Sherlock about a certain glibness in his attitude before.

"Be so good as to ask him to join us, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, sir."

Sherlock trudged back up the stair, rubbing the cufflink in his pocket and thinking about how he only had to deal with Anderson for one more month. He knocked forcefully on Anderson's door, hoping to find the man asleep. If anyone was going to be dismissed for dereliction of duty, it wasn't going to be him. There was no answer.

He knocked again, even more forcefully. "Anderson! We are waiting on you to attend chapel. It's already five till and Mr. Gregson is not happy. Anderson? Anderson, I'm coming in. You had better be dressed."

The first thing that Sherlock noticed was that the room was in disarray. The second thing that he noticed was that Anderson was still in bed.

"Anderson?" Sherlock reached out to touch the body on the bed to confirm what he already knew. Anderson was dead. No one sleeps on their back with a sheet over their face. He pulled the sheet down. Anderson's eyes were shut, and the cause of his death—his own tie—was still around his neck. He was still dressed in his evening uniform except for the jacket, which had been hung up. The body was cool to the touch. Sherlock pushed the sheet down further and saw that Anderson had rolled his sleeves up against the household standards of dress. He tried to lift Anderson's arm and felt that the stiffening of death had already begun.

Although Sherlock had seen many dead animals, he'd never seen a dead body. He suspected that he should feel something—remorse that he'd been unkind to Anderson, regret that the man was dead—but all he felt was fascination at the mechanics of death. It was clearly murder, and that too intrigued him. Who had killed the man? How would the police find the culprit?

He looked about the room. He had been wrong in his earlier assessment. Only half of the room was in disarray. The wardrobe had been ransacked and the contents of three of the four dresser drawers dumped onto the floor. So the murderer, or rather someone—possibly the murderer—had found what they were looking for.

With his pointed toe of his shoe, Sherlock dug through a few things from the last drawer opened. He didn't fancy rooting around in Anderson's clothes. There was nothing to indicate what had been taken. No, there was something. There were a few blue ribbons of about half a yard in length. Two, no three, jumbled in with the clothing and few belongings. Whatever it was—letters possibly—had been in different layers in the drawer.

He returned to the body. The tie around Anderson's neck had not just been pulled tight, but knotted in a strange, bulky knot. The killer had shut Anderson's eyes and covered his face. Remorse? Honoring the dead? Or had someone else come in after?

There was little more he could do without moving things about and he knew that Gregson would be coming up to fetch both of him if he didn't go down first. He drew the sheet back up over Anderson's face.

Back in the dining room he moved to Gregson's side and said in as low a voice as he could, "There's a problem with Anderson, sir. I need to speak to you in the hall."

Gregson looked surprised but followed Sherlock out. "Is Mr. Anderson ill?"

"No, sir, he's dead."

"Dead! Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir. I touched the body. It's cold and rigid. I believe that he's been murdered. He looks to have been strangled with his own tie."

Gregson's brow furrowed as he attempted to find precedent to guide his course of action. But what precedent could there be for a murder?

"Mr. Holmes, please ask Mrs. Turner to come out to the hall."

"Yes, sir."

Sherlock returned to the dining room and the curious stares of the staff.

"Mrs. Turner, Mr. Gregson would like a word."

Mrs. Turner was a gaunt woman, with a narrow face dominated by large blue eyes. She had a pleasant motherly nature and Sherlock knew that she would be unable to hide her reaction to the news from the rest of the staff.

Sure enough, when he joined her and Gregson in the hall she'd already burst into tears. He suspected that hers would be some of the only tears shed over Anderson in the household.

"Mr. Holmes, please take the rest of the staff to chapel with Mrs. Turner. I am going to tell Lord Lestrade the news and decide on the best course of action. If anyone asks, tell them that Mr. Anderson is ill. I depend upon your discretion."

"Certainly, sir." He doubted that any of the staff would be satisfied with a story about Anderson's illness when Mrs. Turner couldn't stop crying, but with much blowing of her nose, she managed to control herself enough to return to the room.

Everyone walked to chapel in silence, but Sherlock fancied that he could hear the thoughts that were whirring through everyone's heads. Once inside the narrow room, Sherlock seated himself at the back in order to observe the staff. It was intriguing to consider that one of them might be a murderer.

The maids he dismissed as suspects, although there was the possibility that it was one of them who had covered Anderson's face. With the exception of Mary Rose, who was five feet ten inches tall, probably weighed fifteen stone and could lift the great vats of wet laundry without help, Sherlock doubted that any of the maids would have the strength. There was also the fact that all of the female staff lived in terror of being found in the men's hall as it meant immediate dismissal with a stain upon their reputation. He had suspected that Anderson and Sally might have had some sort of agreement; they came from the same village. But he had seen no indication of actual impropriety in the house.

Mrs. Turner was sniffling at the end of a pew and being comforted by Mrs. Norris the cook. The maids were exchanging glances trying to guess what could be happening. He scanned their faces, but all seemed genuinely puzzled. There was nothing to suggest that any of them knew more than they were telling.

Of the male members of the staff, he dismissed the young houseboy and boot boy for the same reasons as the maids. They wouldn't have had the physical strength either. That left Dimmock, Gregson and himself. He dismissed Richards the chauffeur as his room was above the stables. The house was locked up tight each night. If Richards had been let in, he would have had to have had help. He also knew that Richards was a drunk who was generally dead to the world after putting away the car.

There was also Lord Lestrade's valet, Clarke, but he, too, slept in another part of the house in order to be available to Lord Lestrade. He had little interaction with the downstairs staff, so what would be his motive?

That brought him back to the central question: who wanted to kill Anderson? Why?

Unfortunately, he was the most likely candidate. Their animosity was well known and the altercation the previous afternoon had been witnessed by almost everyone. The police would certainly hear about that.

Could it be someone upstairs or a member of the visiting staff? He returned to the question of why? What could the motive be?

Again John woke from dreams of Sherlock. He was at his home in 221 Baker Street. His practice was on the ground floor and he lived in 221b, the flat on the first and second floors. Sherlock was knocking on the door and John wanted to get there to let him in, but he seemed to be moving through treacle, the way one does in dreams.

With a start he woke to find that someone actually was knocking on the door.

"Doctor Watson?"

John fumbled for his dressing gown and slippers and opened the door. Lord Lestrade was there looking as though he had dressed in great haste. He stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him.

"Doctor Watson, I am so sorry to have to bother you with this. There's been a problem with one of the servants. I could use your knowledge as a medical man, although I will understand completely if you prefer not to get involved."

"No, no, whatever I can do to assist. Is someone ill?"

Lord Lestrade looked at the carpet and then his large brown eyes came up to meet John's. "Actually, it's worse than that. One of the footmen has died."

For a moment the world went white and John had to fight off his nausea. 'No, God, no,' he thought. 'You can't be this cruel, to take this happiness from me again.'

"Who, who has died?"

"The first footman, Anderson. I'm afraid we're at a bit of sixes and sevens downstairs, as you can imagine, so Holmes won't be up to dress you."

"Oh, God," John moaned, drawing in a shaky breath. It wasn't Sherlock. It wasn't Sherlock. It was the only thing that he could focus on. He had to struggle to not laugh hysterically in relief, and hoped that Lestrade mistook the tremor in his voice for strong emotion. "I mean, how terrible. Was he ill, do you know?"

Lestrade again looked deeply uncomfortable. "We have reason to believe, strong reason to believe, that he was murdered."

John followed Lord Lestrade up the back stairs to the servant's quarters in the attic. It was cold from the November chill and he imagined that it would be stifling in the summer.

Much as Sherlock had earlier, although John couldn't know it, John noticed the disarray and made a note of it. The police would be called in and everyone would be required to give a statement.

He folded the sheet back and took in the blotching of Anderson's face. His face was surprisingly peaceful. In fact, without his perpetual scowl, he was almost attractive. John slipped a finger between Anderson's neck and the tie to note the bruising. There was something about the knot in the tie but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"It appears to be strangulation, but the coroner will be able to tell you more. By the temperature of the body and the state of rigor, I'd say he died six or seven hours ago."


	7. Suspicions and Interrogations

At eight, the servants returned from chapel. Mr. Gregson and Mrs. Turner gathered them in the servant's dining room before they could go upstairs to change.

"I'm afraid that I have some grave news," he began. Mrs. Turner burst into tears. "First footman, Mr. Anderson… Mr. Anderson has died."

There was a collective gasp. Sherlock scanned the faces again for varying reactions, but they showed only shock.

Molly raised her hand tentatively, "Excuse me, Mr. Gregson?"

"Yes, Molly."

"What did he die of, do you know?"

Gregson looked uncomfortable. "It has not been confirmed, but we have reason to believe that he met with foul play."

Sherlock kept his face neutral, eyes forward, but he could feel the looks from the others. Nearly everyone had been witness to his argument with Anderson the day before. Anyone who hadn't actually been there had certainly been filled in by the others.

Gregson continued, "Lord and Lady Lestrade have been informed and will be telling the family and guests. However, his Lordship would like things to go on as normally as possible. You will go and dress the guests and prepare breakfast." He nodded at Mrs. Norris on the last part. "They will still be attending chapel. Do _not _speak of this upstairs. If anyone forgets themselves and tries to speak to you about it, you are to say that you don't know anything and that Lord Lestrade is making arrangements. Is that clear?"

It seemed a rhetorical question, but Gregson's continued silence indicated that he expected an answer. "Yes, sir, yes, Mr. Gregson," echoed around the room.

"Very good. The police have been notified and should arrive soon. Now go to your duties. The reputation of the house rests upon your shoulders."

They all rose and started from the room. Sherlock allowed himself to look around again. Sally looked pained, but also angry. That was interesting. Perhaps he should try to speak with her. If anyone knew what Anderson was up to, it was she.

However, Mr. Gregson held out his hand to stop him as he approached the door. "Mr. Holmes, you will change into your morning livery, and then return here to help Mrs. Norris with breakfast."

"But Doctor Watson will have no one to dress him."

"Doctor Watson will be attended to."

So he was already the prime suspect, at least in the minds of the servants.

John had hoped to be able to speak to Sherlock but it was the younger footman, Dimmock, who came to dress him. The young man was having to do the work of three men and looked nearly done in. His relief when John told him that he needed no further help was painfully visible.

Before Dimmock could get away, John asked, "Is Mr. Holmes alright?"

"Yes sir, I believe… I believe he's… helping the police." Dimmock dashed off before John could ask more. Did they suspect Sherlock? But Sherlock had an alibi. Well, a sort of alibi.

Did that mean that something had happened to Sherlock as well? He decided to try speaking to Caroline at chapel, but to his disappointment she was trapped next to her cousin, aunt and uncle. Dame Agatha was next to the Lord. The other couples were all grouped near them on other pews. John slipped in next to Mr. Duncaster and Jane Larkin. He could see no sign of Sir Neville.

Looking about, John noted that Mrs. Charles looked more relaxed than he'd seen her all weekend, but Mr. Charles looked even more nervous. He thought about the investments that the other man had discussed with him and wondered if there was a connection. John had only had a brief time with the Darlings the night before. Although they both looked a bit drawn, he had nothing to compare it to. It might have been their usual demeanor.

It seemed impossible to think that any of these people could be murderers. On the other hand, he'd known people abroad who could chat quite pleasantly at the gymkhana club and then go out and commit atrocities the next morning. The only one he could imagine committing murder was Sir Neville. If he could interfere with his own great-nieces, then there was nothing too low for the man. Where was he? Could he have been detained by the police already?

The Vicar kept the service mercifully short. As soon as the Doxology had been sung, Lord and Lady Lestrade rose, eager to return the family to the main part of the house. John caught up to them on their way out of the chapel.

"I saw that Sir Neville wasn't at services. Is he unwell?" That seemed reasonable for a Doctor to ask. Lady Caroline lifted her eyes to him from beneath her hat and gave the tiniest shake of her head. 'Not now,' it seemed to say.

Lady Lestrade answered him. "My Uncle never takes chapel with us, Doctor Watson. He says that he can worship better in the great outdoors. He's probably out striding the fields at this moment."

So, not in police custody, John thought. There was something different about Lady Lestrade this morning. Impossibly, she had the air of being more relaxed and yet, more preoccupied. He thought about what Caroline had seen the night before: Lady Lestrade's conversation with the dead servant. But it was impossible that she could have murdered the man. The tie had been pulled with too much force for a woman to have done it.

He couldn't imagine why anyone upstairs would have murdered a servant. Aristocratic façades can hide all manner of secrets—Sir Neville being a case in point—but what reason could Neville have had? Could he have had some sort of connection to the dead man?

The police had arrived at ten-thirty. They were led by Inspector Thompson, a florid man who was continually mopping his brow despite the chilly day. Gregson greeted them and took them to see the body. To Sherlock's surprise, he was asked to accompany them to Anderson's room.

Like many servants, Sherlock regarded the police with both deference and suspicion. While he had been raised to have a healthy respect for the law, from the little he'd seen of their methods, Sherlock thought the police sloppy and inefficient, relying less on evidence than on snap decisions. This opinion was only confirmed by the actions of Inspector Thompson and his men.

No less than three of them crowded into the cramped room with Sherlock and Mr. Gregson, which caused them to blunder over what Sherlock considered the most important evidence, the scattered contents of Anderson's bureau drawers. Thompson's primary focus was the body itself, and, despite the absence of the coroner, he lifted the body and loosened the knot at Anderson's throat, muddying any conclusions that the coroner might draw.

"Excuse me, sir, but it looks as though someone pulled out the drawers here, searching for something, possibly letters. The ribbons look like they—" started Sherlock, although it earned him a glare from Gregson for speaking without being spoken to.

"We'll decide what's important here, sonny, don't you worry." Thompson gave Sherlock an appraising look and seemed to dislike what he saw. This may have had something to do with the fact that he had to tilt his head back to look up at Sherlock, being at most five foot six.

"Now then, who else sleeps in this hall?"

This time Sherlock looked at Mr. Gregson for permission. "My room is next door, sir. Third footman Dimmock is across the hall and the boys who do the drudge work share a room next to his."

Thompson nodded as if this confirmed something. "So if anything happened in the night, it's likely that you'd have heard it?"

Sherlock hesitated. Anything he could say would be a lie. "I'm not certain, sir. I sleep badly and often go for walks in the night to wear myself out." Better to be reprimanded by Gregson for wandering at night than to say that he heard nothing when the walls were thin. "It's possible that I was out of my room at the time that Mr. Anderson…met his end."

From the condescending smirk on his face, Sherlock guessed that Inspector Thompson thought him a liar. "I see. We'll be wanting to talk to you more about that 'walk.'" He looked at Mr. Gregson. "Is there somewhere I can speak to all of the servants in private?"

Though it pained him, Mr. Gregson offered his personal sitting room. He attempted to assert himself briefly by saying that he would make up a schedule for the servants' interviews in order to cause the least disruption. With that bit of power play they all returned to the lower floor.

Mrs. Norris was understandably horrified by the other policemen lounging in the kitchen and servant's dining room. They seemed to require an inordinate amount of both coffee and tea and even helped themselves to the remains of the breakfast trays.

"How am I supposed to prepare a proper luncheon for the guests with a bunch of dirty, great policemen stomping everywhere and getting underfoot," she groused to Sherlock and Mr. Gregson within the Inspector's hearing.

Sherlock had to suppress a chortle as he watched Mr. Gregson's barely suppressed outrage. He could dismiss Gregson as a suspect. No matter how much cause the butler may have had to murder Anderson, he would never have done it with guests in the house.

Inspector Thompson accepted Mr. Gregson's schedule with one change. He said that he wanted to speak to Sherlock last rather than first.

Mr. Gregson and Mrs. Turner went first, so that they could be available when the household returned from their services. The maids were seen after they returned from helping the ladies and getting the fires stirred. Mrs. Norris was deferred until after luncheon. The boys and poor frazzled Dimmock went in and out quickly.

Then it was Sherlock's turn. He'd been in Gregson's sitting room before for the periodic reprimand and less frequently for a compliment on his work. The room had always been rather ascetic, but it seemed that the fire had been doused to make the room even more cold and uninviting.

"Now then, Robbie," began Thompson. He had pulled an occasional table in front of Gregson's Morris chair to use as a desk. A low stool had been placed in front of the table so that anyone sitting there would be lower than Thompson.

"I go by Holmes."

"We're not so formal here. It seems that you weren't so fond of the murdered man, William, wasn't it?"

"Are you asking me to confirm his name, or whether I liked him? We weren't in the habit of using our Christian names with one another."

Sarcasm would earn him nothing, and yet the man was so clearly an idiot, it was too tempting. Inspector Thompson reminded Sherlock of a master he'd had in primary school. A dull man who had risen to his position by sheer doggedness and the absence of better candidates, he resented anyone with natural intelligence. Sherlock's knuckles bore scars from the liberal application of that master's ruler.

"None of your sass, now. I've been warned about your lip (that would have probably been from Mr. Gregson) and how you think yourself quite the learned gentleman." Thompson made a show of shuffling his notes, "'High and mighty just because he's got a bit of an education,' were the words used." That contribution was probably from Sally.

"It isn't a crime to read books."

"No, but we are talking about a crime here, aren't we. Is it not true that you and William nearly came to blows yesterday?"

"I wouldn't say that we were about to come to blows. He insulted some of the family and guests and I knew that Mr. Gregson wouldn't approve and told him so."

"But it wasn't Mr. Gregson who was," again the checking of notes, "'walking towards him menacingly' and threatening to 'shut his mouth for him,' was it?"

"Mr. Gregson wasn't there. I'm sure if he had been, he would have reprimanded him severely."

"But you threatened him. Mr. Gregson didn't. None of the other servants threatened him."

"Threatened him with what? Washing his mouth out with soap?"

Inspector Thompson snapped, "Oh, come now, Robbie, don't insult my intelligence. You threatened to kill him! Added to that, Mr. Gregson said that one of you would have to go. It was him or you. You decided to make sure that it wasn't you." When he raised his voice, Thompson's eyes bulged out and his face went even redder.

Sherlock tilted his head back so that, despite his lower level, he was able to look down his nose at Thompson. "By murdering him in such a clumsy and obvious way? What? I thought they'd think he'd died of natural causes and I'd be promoted? Please don't insult _my_ intelligence."

Thompson clinched his fists, but then seemed to think better of it. He leant back as if something had suddenly occurred to him. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, almost soothing.

"I can tell that you're a smart man, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock noted the use of the honorific. "As smart as they all say you are. But I think you've got a bit of a temper. Maybe you did it in a fit of passion. Maybe William took offence at your innocent words. Maybe he tried to get back some of his own with you in the night and things happened. Things you might regret now, in the cold light of day. Timmy, the little boot boy, he said that Anderson might have threatened you; something about catching you out? You getting what you deserve? Why don't you tell me just what happened and I'll tell the magistrate. Everyone will see it was an accident. You're not Crippen. You'll serve some time, but you won't hang. Just tell me what happened in your own words."

"I didn't kill him. You should be looking for the person who wrote those letters, and wanted them back."

Suddenly the inspector slammed his hand on the table. "If you didn't kill him, then who did? How could you not hear a man being strangled in the room next to yours? Tell me that!" He half rose out of his chair, hoping to use his bulk to intimidate Sherlock as he couldn't use his height.

"I told you. I went for a walk."

"Ah, yes. The 'walk.'" he sneered. "Mr. Gregson said that was against the rules of the house."

"There are many things against the rules of the house. Some are more important than others. I felt that it was a lesser offense and would cause no harm."

Just as abruptly, the friendly policeman was back. Thompson settled back in his chair. Sherlock wondered if this kind of thing normally worked on criminals, or if it only made the innocent more nervous.

"We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, Robbie." So they were back to Robbie. "Why don't you tell me exactly what you did after your duties were done?"

Sherlock tried to stay calm. He'd been dreading this, almost more than being accused of murder. He had an alibi. Could remember every moment of the night before, but he couldn't tell it.

John! Would John be so foolish as to give him an alibi? It would be terrible if John tried to say that Sherlock had been in his room for some innocent reason, such as John being taken ill, after Sherlock said that he'd gone for a walk in the garden and then straight to bed. He needed to see John or at least get a message to him. Still, he couldn't say nothing. That, too, would look suspicious.

"I left the drawing room. I was feeling a bit unwell and I asked Mr. Dimmock to cover for me so that I could undress Doctor Watson, one of the guests, and retire early." That much was true, and Dimmock had probably confirmed it.

Inspector Thompson looked gleeful, as though Sherlock had walked right into his trap. "You say you felt unwell and yet you then went out for a walk!"

"My stomach was unsettled and it was clear that I wasn't going to fall asleep after I left Doctor Watson and retired to my room. I thought the cold night air would clear my head."

"Mmm-hmm. And what time was this? That you retired?"

Sherlock spoke slowly as if mentally considering the times. "The guests lingered in the drawing room after dinner. Lord and Lady Lestrade ended the evening at eleven-thirty. I put Doctor Watson to bed, by midnight at the latest. I spent a half an hour in my room trying to get comfortable, and then took my walk. I must have walked for forty-five minutes and then returned to my room. There was no sound in our hall; I undressed, went to bed and fell into a deep sleep. I heard nothing and saw nothing untoward in the night."

He went on, trying to soften his tone to seem cooperative. "Further, I woke at my usual time of six, dressed in my Sunday clothes and joined the other servants in the dining room. When Mr. Gregson noticed that Mr. Anderson was not among us, he sent me to fetch him. I found him as you saw him. Before you moved his body." Thompson didn't seem to notice the taunt.

"I see. So that is your story." Thompson put on a disappointed expression as if Sherlock had personally failed him. Either that or he was genuinely disappointed that Sherlock's lack of confession would prevent him from having the case wrapped up before tea.

"It's what happened. Sir."

"Very well, Robbie. You may go, but stay in the kitchen. I may need to speak to you again after I've spoken to the people upstairs."

Sherlock rose and then paused at the door, "It is very likely that those letters involved someone from upstairs and that they were eager to get them back. I would try to find out whose they were."

Thompson looked at him coldly. "I have only your word about these mysterious letters. I don't think I'll be troubling the gentry on the word of a servant."

Sherlock walked slowly from the room. 'Think, think, think!' he muttered. If he could figure out who had wanted those letters so badly, he might be able to clear his own name.

But, first things first. He needed to get a note to John.

"May I step outside to smoke?" he asked one of the constables at the door.

After a consultation with his superiors, the constable allowed him to step into the tiny yard off the kitchen where deliveries were received. While they were talking it over, Sherlock managed to grab a pencil from the tin in the kitchen where they were kept for record keeping.

What could he write that wouldn't arouse suspicion if someone else confiscated it, but would still convey his meaning to John, plus was short enough to write on the inside of a cigarette package? He wrote as small as he could while still being legible.

_Dr. Watson,_

_I hope you slept well after I undressed you for bed at __**midnight**__. Do not trouble yourself with __**anything**__. It is in hand. I thank you for your suggestions last evening and hope to discuss them further soon. Yrs. SRH_

Now, how to get it upstairs?

When he came back to the kitchen, Molly, the housemaid, was fetching some tea to take up to Lady Louisa. He stopped her in the hall.

"Molly, I need you to do me a tremendous favor." He smiled what he knew was his most charming smile. He'd used it before.

"Oh, Robbie. Are you in trouble? I didn't want to tell them what you said to Anderson yesterday, but Sally had already said, and I couldn't lie and—"

"No, no, it's alright. It will be alright, but I need you to take a message to one of the guests."

"What?"

"Doctor Watson. He took an interest in me and I want to let him know that I am fine since they aren't letting me go upstairs. Will you take him a note?"

"Robbie, I can't take a note to a male guest! All of the guests are staying in their rooms until the Inspector can speak to them or until lunch. I can't go to his room!"

"Yes, you can. I have faith in you. He's a very nice man. He won't be shocked at all. In fact, he may be expecting something like this. Please, Molly, say you'll try. It means so much to me. You've always been such a good friend. Please."

As he had hoped, Molly blushed at his praise. "Alright, I'll try, but I can't promise. If anyone sees me I'll have to walk past his room without delivering it. Do you have it ready?"

"Yes, here it is." He handed her the tightly folded note. "You're an absolute brick."

Molly looked a bit put out by that. He knew that she wanted to be more than just a friend to him.

"I won't forget this, Molly. I promise."

"All right, I'll do what I can, providing I won't get caught." She put the note in the pocket of her apron and hurried up the stairs with her tray.


	8. Confessions and Departures

Upstairs Inspector Thompson was installed in a seldom-used sitting room. Unlike in his interviews in the basement, Thompson was in the same type of chair as the person being interviewed, but an occasional table had been moved for him to use as a desk.

Lord and Lady Lestrade were seen first, and then the guests in order of hierarchy, couples together. John was roughly in the middle of the list, not at the bottom as he'd expected, but perhaps that was because he was a doctor.

Lunch had been a somber affair with little conversation. It seemed that most of the guests were going to catch earlier trains providing the police released them.

As he was shown in, John fingered Sherlock's note in his pocket. The young maid who had brought it to his room had fled as soon as it was delivered so he'd been unable to ask her anything about what was happening downstairs. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the note, but it was clear that Sherlock had taken some pains to get it to him. What did he mean? How could he not trouble himself with what was happening?

"Now then," Thompson consulted his notes, "Doctor Watson. Just a few questions and we should be able to let you head back to London."

"I want to help in any way I can."

"I understand that you were shown the body and confirmed that the man was dead?"

"Yes. I believe he died between midnight and two or three am."

"Yes, well, thank you for that. Obviously we'll have our coroner look at him. You needn't worry yourself on that account. No, just confirming a few facts. I understand that the second footman, Robbie—"

"Mr. Holmes."

Thompson glanced up at John, surprised, "Er, yes, Holmes, just so, this Holmes was acting as your valet while you were staying here?"

"Yes, he was."

"And what time did you retire last night?"

For one terrible moment John thought that the inspector was suggesting that he and Sherlock had retired together, but then he realized what Sherlock's note must have meant.

"I'm not sure of the exact time, but it must have been around midnight."

"So you would say that R— er, Holmes left you around midnight?"

It hit John like a blow to the head. They suspected Sherlock and he had blindly contributed the exact time of death that would implicate Sherlock the most. "It may have been later," he mumbled. "I told you, I'm not sure of the exact time."

Thompson, whom John had begun to dislike very much, made a note on his papers.

"Did you do anything after he left?" Thompson said this as if it was rote. He had his suspect and the rest was mere formality.

"No," answered John, helplessly. "Holmes was an exemplary servant!" he offered, realizing too late that defending Sherlock might look suspicious for both of them. As far as anyone except Caroline knew, he and Sherlock were merely master and temporary servant. That John knew anything about him or felt he should defend a man he had just met would be viewed as questionable behavior. Especially as Thompson hadn't actually said that Sherlock was under suspicion.

Thompson looked at him keenly. "I see." He seemed to consider what to say. "I've been told that he can be a bit lippy and insolent. I take it you didn't see any of that."

"No, of course not." Though it broke his heart to say the words, John added, "I don't know him. We only spoke a little. I found him pleasant and helpful."

The Inspector smiled affably, "Good, good. Good to hear. I think that will be all. You're free to go, but leave your London address in case we should need to contact you further."

John walked out of the sitting room, down the stairs and out the front door to the garden, where deep amongst the shrubbery he screamed aloud and beat the topiary with a stick.

When he returned to the house, Sir Neville and the Darlings had already been driven to the station. There was a debate going on about whether Lady Agatha would go or stay out the weekend as she had planned. Caroline took advantage of the resulting chaos to beckon John into the great hall, ostensibly to show him the artwork before he had to leave.

Caroline stopped in front of modest Vernet lithograph. "The maids told me that he's already been arrested. All of the interviews upstairs were for show."

"Damn," exclaimed John. "I'm sorry, it's just…I need…I need to see him."

She looked at him with her sharp, dark eyes. "You know that's impossible?"

"Yes, yes. I suppose it would be rude to try to stay?"

"Very. It would be…unfair to my aunt and uncle. I'm sorry."

They wandered on a bit further to a statue in the next alcove. "Doctor Watson?"

"Yes?" John was still trying to figure out how to see Sherlock before he left for London. Could he take a room in town? Who could he contact to take his practice the next day?

"I don't suppose…there isn't a chance that he could have done it, is there." She kept her eyes focused on the statue, unfortunately a male nude, discretely fig-leafed.

John turned sharply to glare at her, "Of course not! How could you think that?" He cut himself off to keep from saying that when someone has your cock in his mouth he's a bit too busy to nip out for a nice murder.

"Doctor Watson, Doctor Watson, no, I just—. I didn't think that he could have, but I needed to ask."

He took a deep breath and turned back to the stature. "He was with me until the early morning. It's possible that I was wrong about the time of death. It's an inexact science, but I don't…there really wasn't time. And I know he couldn't have done it. I just know it.

"Anderson was with your aunt and he was in my room when I got upstairs. There was no time. Did you tell that dull inspector about seeing your aunt?"

Caroline bit her lip. "No…I'm not sure why. I mean, my aunt couldn't have murdered him. That's absurd. If she told him, I don't know."

John sighed, "No, of course your aunt couldn't have done it, it's just that…it would have been nice for the Inspector to consider another possibility."

They wandered farther down the hall in silence. Soon they would reach the end and have to turn back and John would have to ride to the station and return to London.

"Caroline? Are you leaving as well?"

"What? No. They're still hoping that we'll be able to go up to London at the end of the week. If not all together, then with Uncle following. Apparently Anderson had no family, so Uncle Gregory will be making arrangements.

She paused, pained, "Plus, the trial. Should it come to that." Then smiling her broad smile, she reached out to grab John's hand. "But I'm sure that it won't! He's innocent and they won't find anything to convict him."

She went on, "He's very clever, you know. And he likes a mystery. He once got me out of a terrible punishment by proving that I'd been eating sweets in a wardrobe in the closed wing when a vase was broken and some trinkets stolen. Of course it was a young prince who was guilty, so nothing really happened, but still. Maybe he can find the murderer with our help!"

John grabbed her by the shoulders, "You could go see him! If you're staying on, then you'll be able to see him in jail!" He looked over her shoulder, eyes going wide. "Pity you can't say that he was your lover. That would make it so simple." He paused and looked at her, "I don't suppose that you could?"

Now it was time for her eyes to go wide. "Doctor Watson! No, of course not. I can't, I mean, I just…"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. You're right. I should never have suggested it." He paused and then looked at her fiercely, "But you could go see him."

She looked at her feet. "I don't know how. I mean I can't just announce that I'm going to visit a servant who's been arrested, Doctor Watson. I want to. I mean, I want to help, but I have to think of myself, of my sisters. I'm…I'm sorry."

John considered what he was asking and then considered what was at stake. "Please, Lady Caroline. You want adventure. This is what adventure is. Being brave and clever. I know that you can think of an excuse. Think of the stories you told yourself when you were younger. I know you can do this. Please try. For my sake, for his. Please."

She looked up at him, and then her mouth tightened into a small line, but her eyes were bright. "Alright, Doctor Watson. I'll try. I can't promise, but I will try."

"Thank you, Lady Caroline. All we can ever do is try." He thought about embracing her, but decided against it and instead took her hand and squeezed it.

They returned to the drawing room where it had been decided that Dame Agatha would be leaving after all, to impose herself on other relatives, and it seemed sensible that John ride with her to the station. He went up to his room to find that his luggage had already been packed.

After everything, the arrest had gone off quietly. Sherlock was cautioned, handcuffed and led out in front of the other servants. Most avoided his eye.

The village was small and the jail had only one cell. A constable signed him in and he surrendered his belt, tie and shoelaces.

"Turn out your pockets, please."

Stupid, stupid, he thought to himself. Well, there was nothing for it now. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and John's cufflink along with it.

Inspector Thompson grabbed it up, "What have we here? JW? Hmm…not your initials. Care to explain this."

"It belongs to Doctor Watson. I…found it as I left his room last night and not wanting to disturb him, planned to return it to him this morning. However, I was not allowed to attend him, as you know."

Thompson turned it over in his fingers. "Found it, you say? Difficult to lose a cufflink and not notice. Maybe you thought you'd get yourself a little ready cash to make good your escape?'

Sherlock' temper broke, "Oh for goodness sake! If I were going to steal, why would I steal ONE cufflink? Especially a monogrammed one. A pawn broker isn't going to give me anything for one unsellable cufflink!"

Thompson nodded thoughtfully, as if this was one more example of Sherlock's criminal tendencies. "Well, never you mind about that. We'll make sure this gets back to Doctor Watson. You go have a nice think about what we talked about and we'll have a nice chat tomorrow after you've had a night in the cell."


	9. Looking for Solutions

"You know, John, as your solicitor, I'm advising you to walk away. Don't get involved."

"And let an innocent man sit in jail, face trial, possibly…possibly worse? You know I can't do that!"

"And you're absolutely certain he couldn't have done it?"

John sighed and put his face in his hands.

"Colin…I told you. He was with me all night, until the early morning. We were…we were occupied."

John's solicitor and longtime friend nodded and leaned back in his chair. Normally visiting Colin was a pleasure for John, but the orderly, paneled room offered no comfort when he thought of Sherlock lonely and possibly afraid in a cell.

"John," Colin began, hesitating, voice low, "Do you think… I know that you think you have…feelings for this man, but you barely know him. You've just come into some money. That's surely gossip down in the servant's hall. He could see you as an easy mark for blackmail or as a rich lover."

John jumped up in agitation, balling his fists and striding around the room. "No, Colin! You don't know how it is. What we said to one another!"

John sighed again and sat back down. "I know you mean well, as my friend, but...I love him Colin. I love him desperately, deeply, I don't know… I know it seems insane or that I'm deluding myself, but I truly believe that he feels the same way."

Colin held up his hands to acknowledge John's words and to calm him down. "Alright, John, alright, he's the love of your life, and he's innocent, but I don't know what you want me to do about it. I don't practice criminal law. There are no barristers in this firm who do. And even if there were, it would be damning for you to pay for his lawyer. Do you _want_ to go to jail?"

"If it comes to that, I would. Better we both go to prison for a few years than he hang," John said, in a calm, cold voice.

"John…" said Colin, managing to be shocked, alarmed and placating at the same time.

"We just have to figure out how to keep it from coming to that. You must know solicitors who do handle criminal law? Money is no object!"

"Of course, but again, let me remind you that any connection between the two of you will look suspicious. Why would a man of your standing be concerned with the welfare of a servant in another man's household?" He looked thoughtful a moment. "Is it possible that Lord Lestrade will pay for a lawyer?"

"I don't know. Since the victim was also in his employ, it might put him in too difficult a position. Is there some sort of charity we could appeal to to take on his case?"

"There are some, but I don't know if they can be relied upon to provide a strong defense, particularly in a case which seems so cut and dried. I'm afraid that this is going to become a rather sensational case because of his Lordship's name."

John chewed on his knuckle for a few minutes in silence, his eyes darting about the room as if the corners would hold a solution.

"What if," he began, "what if I set up a charity? Not in my name, of course, anonymously funded, and I suppose if someone were to dig they might figure it out, but surely you could bury it in legal wordage?" He went on, warming to his topic, "If we broadened it, put in some language about how it can help suffragettes then I can get Harriet to persuade her friends to contribute. It could even go on in that capacity and it will look less suspicious. Could you do that?"

Colin put his hands beneath his chin and leaned on his desk considering. He didn't answer but got up and fetched a volume from the shelf. John sat in impatient silence.

"I could…" Colin drew out. "There are some other people I want to consult on the particulars—

obviously not the reasons why we need to do this—but I believe it could be done, and that your part in it could be adequately hidden."

"Thank you, Colin, thank you so much for doing this. And for understanding," John smiled. He knew it wasn't guaranteed, and his thoughts were still with Sherlock in his cell, but it was the first glimmer of hope that he'd had since realizing that Sherlock was the prime suspect.

The brass clock on Colin's desk started to chime the ten o'clock hour. John had sent a telegram as soon as he'd reached London the night before begging Colin to see him first thing in the morning, and the lawyer had just managed to fit him in.

Colin reached for a file on his desk to prepare for his next client, and John rose to go. "John," Colin said, his hand pausing over the file. "Do you ever wonder if we could have made a go of it in some way?"

John laughed as he put on his coat, "I think we were both rather more in love with sex than with one another, and anyway, you got married."

Colin nodded, and if he seemed a bit too resigned, John didn't notice, "Well, you joined the army and went abroad. A solicitor needs a wife for appearance sake."

"Of course, Colin. And how would that have worked? A doctor and a solicitor couldn't hang a shingle together. If I fail, my lawyer partner can draw up your will? No, we were young and it was good fun, nothing more. How is Nadine, by the way?"

"Oh, good, good. Give my regards to Harriet and your mother."

"Certainly. Colin…" John hesitated again at the door before opening it. "If the worst should happen, and I needed to…would you make sure that Mother and Harriet were taken care of? If we need to draw up some papers, then do it. If they're not needed, then we can destroy them down the line after everything is safe. Alright?"

Colin smiled, "You know that I would look after them, John. I'll put something together. I should have something by Wednesday and hopefully we can get a solicitor down there to talk to your friend before Friday. Try to stay calm, John and don't do anything foolish."

John nodded and smiled, trying to convey his gratitude before opening the door and leaving.

Sherlock had spent a sleepless night pacing and trying to think what he could possibly do to prove his innocence without damning John. At eight-thirty, he was pulled roughly to his feet and taken to his arraignment where he was remanded in custody and then returned to his cell. After that he had seen no reason to remain fully dressed and had removed his livery jacket, waistcoat, tie and collar and laid them neatly at the end of the bunk. He then rolled up his sleeves and curled up on the cot with his knees drawn up to go over everything he could remember from his brief examination of the room and what he knew of the guests and servants to see if he could make any connection to Anderson.

He wasn't sure if a change of clothes would be sent down from the house but if they were, he expected one of the boys to bring them. Instead, around noon he heard a familiar but surprising voice from down the hall.

"Of course you will let me see him! Do you know who I am? That man is still a member of Lord and Lady Lestrade's household, _my_ aunt and uncle. We are very concerned with his treatment at your hands, and I have come to see that he is being cared for properly."

Three minutes later Lady Caroline came down the hall followed by a very confused looking constable who was carrying a hamper and a bundle wrapped in brown paper and string.

For a slight woman Lady Caroline was carrying herself as if she were fully two feet taller than the guard and dressed in full court regalia.

The constable set the hamper down so he could unlock the cell. Caroline walked in with her nose in the air as though she were evaluating the state of the jail and finding it wanting. The Constable was forced to carry the hamper in behind her.

"Are you going to get me a chair?" she asked impatiently.

"I'm not…I mean…I'm not even supposed to let you back here. I can't leave you locked in with him."

"Oh, pshaw. This man has taken care of me since I was a child. Go and fetch me a chair."

Sherlock, who had jumped up when he'd seen Lady Caroline coming down the hall, looked down at his feet to keep his grin from showing. John might despise the deference given to the upper classes, but it was certainly proving beneficial in this case.

When the man had gone off to look for a suitable chair, Sherlock stepped closer to Lady Caroline. "You shouldn't be here. I'm more grateful than you can know, but I don't want you to get in trouble because of me."

"You know I've never been good at staying out of trouble." She grinned up at him. "Besides it's an adventure. How could I resist? Our mutual friend is very concerned about you."

Sherlock shut his eyes and bit his lip in agitation. "Please tell him to leave it alone and to not send you on risky missions, either. There's nothing that either of you can do; I have to convince the police—"

The constable's footsteps sounded down the hall and he reappeared with a high-backed wooden chair. He also held a small crewel-worked cushion showing a lion and a unicorn on a red field, probably made by his own wife to ease his backside through long desk duty and no doubt intended to make her ladyship more comfortable. He let himself in and set the chair in the middle of the floor. He then moved it so that it was closer to the door and farther from the bunk. He laid the cushion on it, then took it off and plumped it up, and put it back. He looked to be ready to move it again when Lady Caroline, with a sigh of impatience at his efforts at decorating, actually stamped her foot.

"Thank you. You may leave now."

"I told you, ma'am, miss, I mean, your ladyship, I can't leave you alone with the prisoner."

"And I told you that you could. Now go on." She flapped her hands at him, "Shoo! I'll call when I need you."

Sherlock moved to take the bundle. As he expected, it held a clean shirt and collar, underthings, toiletries but no razor, and socks.

"Mrs. Turner sent that. Mrs. Norris packed the hamper."

"Do they think I'm guilty?"

Lady Caroline chewed her lip, "They don't want to, of course."

Sherlock tilted his head and studied her, "Do you think I'm guilty?"

She looked at her fingernails for a moment before answering. "No," she said, finally and decisively. "Doctor Watson says you couldn't have, and I don't believe that you would have." With that she sat down on the chair, placing the unnecessary pillow on the floor for want of anywhere better to put it. "Please, sit. I know…I know you wouldn't normally, but this isn't exactly a normal situation, is it?"

Sherlock perched awkwardly on the edge of the bunk, uncomfortably aware of his disheveled state.

"Go on, eat. It will give us some time to talk so that I can take the hamper back."

The basket held far too much food. Mrs. Norris, probably with Mrs. Turner beside her, had eased her guilt over their distrust by overwhelming him with food. He pulled out some sandwiches and began to eat as Caroline went on.

"Now then," she leant forward conspiratorially, "as I said, our mutual friend is very concerned and willing to do anything to prove you innocent and get you released."

Sherlock swallowed a bite, "I was afraid of that. Please, please tell him that he must not put himself in danger, or you. I couldn't— couldn't bear it if something were to happen."

Caroline nodded as if agreeing, but gazed off in the distance, lost in thought. "Do you think that you can convince them that you're innocent? Will they believe you if you don't, well, _can't _tell them how you have an alibi?"

Sherlock chewed slowly. He wasn't sure, but from his previous encounters with Inspector Thompson, he doubted his chances of success, but to say that would invite John and Caroline to rush in foolishly. On the other hand, if he couldn't prove his innocence, he would hang. That was certain. There would be no leniency. The only thing that could really save him was exposing the guilty party. And how could he do that from a prison cell?

Caroline interrupted his silence, "I told Doctor Watson that you could figure things out, like when you found me as a child and saved me from a hiding. Do you think you could solve this? If we help you? You could be like Poe's Dupin!"

Sherlock laughed for the first time since being arrested, "I am touched by the confidence that you and John, Doctor Watson, have in my abilities. I really am. I've been trying to think of a motive someone might have for killing Anderson—"

"Besides him being horrible? He was so mean to us as children. Playing proper in front of the grown-ups, but then pinching our cheeks and snapping at us when they weren't looking."

"Yes, besides him being horrible, though he certainly was," he chuckled. "No, something more. There were letters, I'm sure of it. He had letters wrapped up in ribbon in a drawer and someone came and took them. I think if you find out who wanted those letters, we'll be a good deal closer to

knowing who killed him."

He shut his eyes for a moment, visualizing the room. He could see the pale blue ribbons, their length and where they were wrinkled from being tied. "There were three bundles of letters, roughly seven to ten envelopes depending on the thickness of the correspondence.

"If you and John insist on helping me, try to find out—carefully, mind you—who wanted those letters. How long are you staying?"

"I think we're planning on going to town at the end of the week."

"Perhaps you can work on the maids and the other staff. Be delicate. We don't want whomever it is to do a runner because we're sniffing around. Molly is a good one to start with. Sally…Sally and Anderson had some sort of understanding. I'm not sure how deep it went. She would probably be the best source of information, but she might not be willing to talk."

Caroline nodded eagerly. "And Doctor Watson? I know he'll want to do something."

Sherlock considered. John's position was more precarious. Caroline had the excuse of her known curiosity and access to the servants, but John could hardly start investigating everyone's past. He'd just have to rely on John's sense of self-preservation to help him.

"I presume he's gone back to London?"

"Yes."

"Write him, if you can, and try to let him know what we've discussed, but be cautious. Letters get lost."

"Oooo, should I use code like in _The Secret Agent_?"

He wasn't sure whether he should be amused by her enthusiasm or appalled at her frivolousness. His life was on the line. It wasn't an adventure in a book.

"I don't think we need go that far. It's real life, not a novel."

She bristled visibly. "I do know that."

"Of course you do, Lady Caroline. I'm sorry." He smiled, "Thank you. I know that you'll do your best and be very good at it. Ask John to try to look into the backgrounds of the guests as secretly as he can to see if they know anything or if they might have written the letters. I think that Anderson may have been blackmailing someone and when he wouldn't hand over the evidence, they killed him. But emphasize that both of you must be careful."

He dusted his hands on a napkin, "I'm afraid I can't finish this magnificent lunch. See if you can hide that from Mrs. Norris. You should probably call the guard back."

She suddenly reached out to clutch his hand with her small, gloved one and smiled at him. "It really will be alright. Doctor Watson and I will be very clever and very cautious and get you free."

Hesitantly, he patted her hand with his own and smiled back.


	10. Challenges

"I didn't kill him."

Inspector Thompson leaned back in his chair. The wooden frame creaked beneath his bulk. "I see. You're still maintaining your innocence."

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Just as I have the last seventeen times you've asked. I maintain it because it happens to be true."

They'd been at it for an hour and a half by Sherlock's reckoning. There was no clock. In the late afternoon he'd been brought to a cold room with no windows and a metal door which closed behind him with a dull thud. He and the inspector faced one another across a wooden table.

"Let's be sensible, Robbie."

Sherlock flinched every time Thompson used the name. Part of him wanted to scream in the man's face, "My name's not Robbie! It's Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, and I have as much right to be addressed properly as you do," but he knew that losing his temper would simply give Thompson more reason to doubt anything he said.

Thompson was continuing in a calm voice, "We know that you did it. You're the only one with motive and opportunity—"

"And what is my motive, according to you?"

"To make sure that you kept your position, maybe for the promotion to first footman."

Sherlock dropped his chin to his chest and breathed out through his nose. He looked back up at Thompson, "And I just thought that no one would think it was a murder and life would continue as normal?"

"I'm thinking maybe you went to talk to Anderson, try and sort it out, and things got a bit out of hand."

"God! A minute ago you said that I'd planned it to rise in station; now you're saying I did it in a fit of passion! Which is it?"

"I don't know, Robbie. That's what we're here to find out."

"Did you look at the body at all? The way it was laid out? Let's go over it, shall we?" He was imprudently letting his emotions control him, and yet he couldn't stand Thompson's smug stupidity any longer.

"First, Anderson was still in his livery. He had only removed his jacket. This says that he was murdered very shortly after he went upstairs. Removing his jacket indicates that he was comfortable with the person coming to his room. It's possible that they had met there before, or this person let Anderson know that he would be visiting him that night. Anderson would never have allowed me into his room, and he would never have allowed me to see him with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He knew that I would report it to Gregson, just as he reported my taking walks on the grounds at night. We disliked one another, I admit that, but I wanted him to be dismissed. I didn't want to kill him.

Next, he was strangled with his own tie…," Sherlock trailed off. There was something about the tie, the way it was tied and the way it had been used to strangle Anderson so efficiently, but he hadn't figured out what it meant yet, so didn't mention it to Thompson.

"…his own tie with barely any signs of struggle. Surely if I marched into his room and started ranting at him he'd have been on his guard?"

Thompson tried to interject, "Yes, but—," but Sherlock went on rapidly as he examined the pieces in his mind.

"So again, this was someone he'd dealt with before. Someone he trusted and had a comfortable relationship with, so that he wasn't prepared for their attack and was easily overpowered.

"Then, there's the way the body was laid. It was arranged neatly in the bed with the sheet over the face. That shows respect for the dead, and believe me, I had no respect for Anderson."

Thompson jumped in, "You were horrified by what you'd done and needed to cover the face to hide it!"

"So I charged into Anderson's room, killed him quickly and methodically with a weapon I found at hand, but THEN was so horrified that I covered his face? No, I'm not sure if this murder was premeditated—using Anderson's own tie suggests no—but the person who did it had complete sang-froid. There was no hesitation and no remorse. I'm actually surprised that he covered the face once he'd dropped the body back on the bed." That was another point to consider when he was alone.

"Is that sang fwad some sort of weapon?" asked Thompson.

"It's French. It literally means cold blood."

Thompson smiled, "You seem to be a pretty cold one, Holmes."

"But I killed him in the heat of passion, do keep up."

Thompson's face darkened, "None of your insults! I'm letting you run with this story because I think you'll catch yourself out in the end, but I'm reaching the end of my patience Would that be a confession?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just charged on, "Finally, the killer searched the room for something and found it in Anderson's bureau. He might have gone there specifically to get it and Anderson refused. I believe it was letters—"

"Ah, yes, your letters again."

"Not my letters!" Sherlock waved his hands angrily. He shut his eyes and pulled himself back. "Look, there were three pale blue ribbons on the floor such as the kind one wraps around letters one is saving. Three bundles, seven to ten letters each. Someone wanted them, searched for them and took them away."

"They might have been love letters that Anderson was keeping."

"What, from me to Anderson? What possible motive could I have for taking Anderson's letters?"

"Blackmail," said Thompson, a greedy look coming over his face. "How's this for a story? Anderson was blackmailing you because of something you'd done. Maybe an illicit affair, maybe stealing or some other crime and you wanted those letters back because you were afraid he'd use them to get you dismissed. You offered to meet him in his room to pay him, but then you killed him instead. Is that how it was?" He grinned, gleefully, "Ah, I knew if I let you go on you'd trip up! The guilty always do."

Sherlock almost bit his lip, but managed to steel himself and control his face just in time. The mention of an illicit affair was much too close to the truth.

He sighed and slumped back in his chair. "I'm sure that you've searched my room. Did you find any letters?"

"Oh, I never said you weren't smart, Holmes. I'm sure those letters have long been burnt up in the stove or some fireplace in the house. No, I think we have what we need. Now, did you kill him?"

"No, I did not."

Thompson's florid face became even more red. "Fine, we'll do it the hard way and let the judge hear about your…your sungfwud in the face of the evidence. Mark my words, we will convict you. It's just a matter of time."

John rolled the cufflink around on his palm. It had come with the morning post. The police had included a short note:

_Doctor Watson,_

_We found this item on the person of Mr. Robert Holmes. He admitted that it belonged to you. If you would like to press charges for theft, please contact us immediately._

He clutched the cufflink tightly, thinking of Sherlock's genuine delight in receiving it, and how happy they'd been that night, making plans. He rested his forehead in his other hand then brought the gold discs up to his mouth to kiss them.

Eyes shut, he tried to remember anything that could help Sherlock's case, but his mind was too distracted. All he could think of was the way Sherlock had looked that first moment, waiting on parade—regal, proud, beautiful. I didn't know it, he thought, but I was already lost.

Then, in the room, their instant attraction, their instant lust. But also, he mused, their instant companionship, an ease with one another beyond the passion.

And then that night, and the next. Those perfect nights of bliss. Beneath his nightshirt his prick hardened. He ran his palm over it, pushing it down, but it wouldn't be denied, not when he could practically taste Sherlock's skin, the way he smelled when they were both drenched in sweat. He gave in and pulled his nightshirt up so that he could stroke himself, already hard enough to have a drop of liquid at the tip. He remembered Sherlock thrusting inside him, pale eyes filled with such adoration. Their hands had joined on his own cock and when Sherlock's thrusts had turned harder, deeper and frantic, John had spilled over them both. With a deep moan he spent, alone in his kitchen.

The orgasm gave him no pleasure. Again he thought, God can't be this cruel. If nothing else, war teaches one that life and God are never fair, but their finding each other had been so miraculous, it seemed impossible that all of their plans would come to nothing. He looked about the kitchen and thought of how different it would be if he was having breakfast with Sherlock, laughing as they ate, all the joy and silliness of being completely with someone he loved. How many men of their type could ever have that?

And now, Sherlock was facing death. John made the deal with God that so many have tried to make before. "Please God, let him be found innocent. Let him go free. Even if it means that I can never have him, even if we can never be together, please just let him live."

Thinking of Sherlock alone and exposed in a cell, unable even to indulge in the release of memories, made him feel so empty he wanted to cry.

At last he gathered himself together and turned his attention to his other piece of mail, a letter from Lady Caroline.

_My dear Doctor Watson,_

_It was such a pleasure meeting you at Lord and Lady Lestrade's this past weekend. I wanted you to know that, at your suggestion, I visited our mutual friend. He seems as well as can be expected given his situation. He was most insistent that you look after yourself. However, he did mention that knowing more about some of our other new friends would benefit us all greatly. _

_Some letters which have gone missing. They may have been found by someone else and the owners would have wanted them back most passionately. Perhaps you can make inquiries as to who wrote the letters using your considerable tact and charm._

_Please let me how you are faring, and I hope that we can meet for tea when I come to London at the end of the week. _

_I remain, most cordially yours,_

_Caroline Westerley _

Attempting to read between the lines as Lady Caroline obviously intended, John guessed that Sherlock wanted him to find out more about the other guests to see who might have had a motive for killing Anderson. Letters had gone missing and people might want them back. Did she mean that Anderson might have been blackmailing one of the guests?

John had no connection with any of the other guests beyond having met them over the weekend. He could hardly ask them if they had been blackmailed by the footman.

Well, he could try to get to know them better and see what he could find out. He went to his writing desk.

_Dear Jane,_

_I do hope you don't mind my calling you Jane as you were so kind when we met at Lord and Lady Lestrade's this weekend… _


	11. The Other Guests  Jane

"Doctor Watson, come for another dance lesson?"

It was eleven in the morning and Jane Larkin was dressed in a pale green kimono with peach embroidery. Her hair was undone and loose down her back. Without make-up she looked older than she had in the gaslight of Carleton Hall. Although her parlour had electric lights she had softened them with scarves so the room was bathed in a reddish light. She sat down in a Morris Chair, leaning forward for John to light her cigarette before sinking back into it.

Now that he was actually trying to question someone, John felt completely out of his depth. He hadn't let himself think about what he would say, hoping that it would come to him in the heat of the moment. All that he knew was that he needed to find out about some letters, letters that must have been in Anderson's possession and were now missing. Why would someone want those letters?

"Thank you for seeing me. I suppose I'll get right to the point. As you know, a footman was murdered at Lord and Lady Lestrade's this weekend."

"Yes, and they arrested the other footman, the pretty one. Pity."

"Yes, well, the other footman, the one who's accused, was my valet for the weekend and I am quite certain that he didn't do it. I feel… that I got to know him fairly well when he was, er, helping me, and found him a man of great integrity."

Jane raised one carefully plucked eyebrow and drew on her cigarette. "You're awfully trusting awfully fast."

"I'm really not… but I am a good judge of character. Comes with being an army doctor."

"So you think he's innocent," she said a bit sharply. "What does this have to do with me?"

John looked at the pattern on the Turkish carpet. "Since you ask, I'll be candid." He looked back up to her face. "Anderson wasn't a very nice person. He was…he had some letters of mine, letters I needed back. And while I didn't kill him, I suspect that someone else might have for the same reasons." It was a risky gambit, to say that the letters were his. He wondered if she would take the bait.

To his great surprise, Jane threw back her head and laughed, a hearty, throaty laugh. "I am sure that you have many secrets, Doctor Watson. Don't we all? But I am quite certain that whatever else is going on, Anderson did not have any letters of yours."

"What? He did. They were—"

"No, he didn't." She shook her head. "I know this because my letter was returned to me yesterday with a typed note saying 'You're safe now.' That's what you really want to know, isn't it? Whether he had anything on me? Unless the person who retrieved those letters had it particularly in for you, I suspect that you would have received your letters as well."

John gaped at her. "Your letters were returned?"

"One letter and yes, as I've said."

Something struck him, "You say a typewritten note? Uncommon, that."

"I suppose so. I was too relieved to get my letter back to pay much attention."

"But…Anderson _was_ blackmailing you then?"

Jane lit another cigarette with the stub of the first. "Yes. Slimy little man. He tried before. Threatened to show my husband some letters and hotel receipts. I wouldn't pay and he did follow through, but my husband laughed in his face." She paused, "Early in our marriage, Tom and I realized that we were not compatible in the bedroom, although we get along brilliantly otherwise. So we have an agreement. He has his hobbies and I have mine.

"Unfortunately, a…young person of my acquaintance was careless enough to sign a letter, not with their name, but with the nickname by which they are known in their circles." She plucked absently at the embroidery on her robe. "While it would be unfortunate for me to be the center of a scandal—as Oscar Wilde said, 'the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about'—it would be disastrous for this person.

She paused and said, with a rueful smile, "So, unfortunately, I was prepared to pay. We had made arrangements to speak on Sunday morning, but, as you know, he was unable to make that appointment. Of course, when he died I did worry that someone else now had possession of it. I wasn't too worried about the police. The letter would hardly have been of interest to them, but I had no way of knowing whether Anderson had an accomplice. He got the letter from somewhere and I trust my maid as you trust that valet."

"May I see the letter? And the note?"

She threw her head back and laughed again, "Doctor Watson, please! Once bitten, twice shy. You are welcome to look at it if you can." She waved at the fire in the grate. "Safety is better than sentiment."

John tilted his head in acknowledgment. He now knew a great deal more than he had due to Jane's forthrightness. And he had the possibility of an accomplice to consider. Perhaps an argument between Anderson and this other person? "You say he only had one letter of yours. Do you know who else in the party might have been caught in his snare?"

"What on earth do you think we women talk about when we're together? I can hardly say, 'Oh, Lady Alice, your footman is blackmailing me. Do you know if anyone else is suffering the same predicament?'" She looked at him askance.

"No, of course not. You've been remarkably frank with me and I thank you for that. A grave injustice has been perpetrated, and I'm looking for anything to help clear an innocent man's name. I was just hoping that you might know of anything that might help. Thank you again for your time." He rose to go.

"Doctor Watson—"

He turned back, "Yes?"

She seemed to consider. "You could do worse than looking into Miller Darling's past. The money is on his wife's side and he would stand to lose a great deal if anything should come out."

"What sort of things?"

"Mistresses. Several of them. He may still have some set up in London. I know that Claire believes that he's reformed, but I sincerely doubt it. That kind of man seldom is." She smiled a sadly, "I should know."

John sat back down and leaned towards her, "Anyone else? Anything you can think of."

Again she scrutinized him through her cigarette smoke.

"Sir Neville?" John suggested. "I can't even imagine what secrets he's hiding."

"Hm. I certainly wouldn't put murder past him, but I'm also not sure that he would care if his secrets came out."

"What sort of secrets?"

"I'm not really sure. Shady financial deals, people ruined. Not my area."

"People like Mr. and Mrs. Charles?"

"You seem to have done your homework already."

"What about Lord and Lady Lestrade or their family?"

"I can't imagine anything that they could have done." She smiled, "Aside from her misfortune in relatives, Lady Lestrade is a lovely woman and their marriage appears perfect. Of course, we can never know what really happens between two people when no one is around."

"And the children are too young to have really done anything, I suppose."

"Yes, I should think so. You met Louisa and her fiancé. Hardly debauched. Sibyl and Jonathan are children. And I've never heard any rumors about Peter or Elizabeth. Elizabeth is married to a lawyer, but again, I've never heard a hint of a scandal. Besides, neither of them were there this weekend."

John laughed. "That leaves Aunt Agatha."

Jane laughed and nodded. "No, I can't imagine her ever doing anything outside of polite society. Or tolerating it in others."

They chuckled together.

Jane gathered herself together, "No, I still think the Darlings are the most likely."

John gazed into the fire, suddenly somber, "Yes, but how can I possibly approach them. If Mr. Darling is hiding something he's hardly going to welcome me in. Especially if he's received his letters back as you did."

Jane bit her lip and tapped a fingernail against an inlaid box on the table beside her. "I shouldn't tell you this."

"That tends to always be a lead in to something else."

"Claire Darling wants a child. She's wanted a child for years. If...if you wanted to...gain her ear, you might use your position as a doctor. I wouldn't tell you this except that...I think that the fault may not be with her. If you understand my meaning."

John nodded. "Thank you, Jane, thank you. He paused, "I don't suppose you'd testify if it came to that."

"No. And please don't mention my name. I still need to be welcomed into the drawing rooms of the aristocracy.

Again he rose to go.

"Doctor Watson-"

"Yes?"

"Please tread softly. Don't ruin lives to save your friend if you don't need to."

John nodded. "It's not my intention to ruin any lives, just to save one." Jane pressed the bell and the maid appeared with John's hat and coat.


	12. More Questions Without Answers

On Thursday Caroline brought Sherlock another basket with a clean shirt and smalls. Coming every day would have aroused suspicion.

She dispatched the guard with the same efficiency as she had on Monday, and after he had backed off down the hall she whispered, "There's a napkin. In the bottom of the basket."

Sherlock moved the waxed-paper-wrapped sandwiches out of the way. The 'napkin' was a letter from John.

_My dear Lady Caroline,_

_It seems that the missing letters have been returned to their owners. Perhaps our friend can work out why and how. Have met with the delightful Jane Larkin and had a very enlightening conversation. I wonder if the gentleman in question had a friend, a good friend or confidant. _

_A local charity has offered to come to help. They should be down there shortly. _

_I am hoping to speak more with Mrs. Darling. Jane mentioned her most especially. Any advice that you might have would be greatly appreciated. _

_Again, I hope to see you soon when you come to London. Tell our friend that I hope to see him soon as well._

_Most sincerely yours,_

_John Watson_

Sherlock looked thoughtful after he had read it and replaced it in the basket, a sandwich forgotten on his knee.

"What do you think it means?" asked Caroline.

"The letters were returned," Sherlock mused.

"That doesn't sound much like a blackmailer," Caroline pointed out.

"No, no, it doesn't. If it were someone who was being blackmailed, I'd expect them to take the letters, and destroy them with their own. Why would they take the time to return the other letters?"

"Good Samaritan?" asked Caroline.

"Who murdered Anderson to get them?"

Caroline accepted his objection with a frown.

"What if," Sherlock started, working through his thoughts by speaking them aloud, "more than one person is involved?"

"The murderer and an accomplice? Do you think that that's what Doctor Watson meant?"

"No, I think he is wondering if Anderson was killed by his accomplice rather than by someone he was blackmailing. What I'm wondering is if the murderer and the person who returned the letters are completely separate. There were details that didn't make sense to me before. The murder was cold-blooded and violent, and yet, the body was laid out with the face covered, a sign of respect.

"But that would mean that the second person knew that Anderson was dead and did nothing about it. Just took the letters."

"True. Perhaps the two weren't actually working together, but both wanted Anderson out of the way. The first person, the murderer, might not have known about the letters or not that there were others besides his own."

"Then the second person came in, and seeing that Anderson was already dead…"

"Covered Anderson's face, searched the room for their own letters, found the others—whether they were expecting to or not—and then took it upon themselves to relieve the minds of his other victims! This is becoming a most intriguing puzzle," Sherlock exclaimed. "If one were with the police, really a detective and not just a copper who stumbled into a detective's position, the case would really be worth solving."

Caroline noted how Sherlock's face lit up as he spoke. For the moment he seemed to have forgotten his own life hung in the balance such was his joy at having something to challenge his mind.

"What do you think Jane meant about Mrs. Darling?" she asked.

Sherlock looked up at her. "I don't know. Do you?"

"I wish we didn't have to speak so carefully in our letters. Does he mean that she is the one being blackmailed—"

"Or is it Mr. Darling? You know…one of the maids mentioned that Mr. and Mrs. Darling have been unable to…" he trailed off, unsure how blunt he dared be with Lady Caroline.

She looked up at him. "Yes, you can say it. They haven't been able to have children. She's been pregnant you know. Several times."

"Really? And yet none have come to term." They both pondered in silence and at last Sherlock opened his sandwich and added, "Well, we shall have to let Doctor Watson solve that mystery on his own."

* * *

><p>"I'm Mr. Marlowe, Esquire, your solicitor. Mr. Donaldson will be acting as barrister."<p>

Sherlock nodded. "Forgive me for asking, but how are you going to be paid? I don't have any money."

"The Society will be paying," continued Mr. Marlowe and he seemed surprised at Sherlock's question. He was a dark skinned man, of average height, but so thin that he seemed considerably taller. While he moved slowly and deliberately, as if he were afraid that he might break something, he spoke very quickly, so that the syllables rattled like gunfire. His tiny half-moon spectacles made a sharp line across his long face.

"Oh. Um…which Society would that be?"

Mr. Marlowe pulled a piece of paper out of his briefcase and passed it over.

"The Society for the Legal Defence of Domestic Workers. I assumed that you had appealed to them on your own behalf."

"No, it must have been my…friends, or family. My mother, perhaps." This must have been what John's letter had referred to. Clever John to have figured out how to get him a lawyer, without doing it in his own name.

Marlowe looked over the spectacles at Sherlock, but went on, "Now then, we take it that you intend to plead innocent?"

"Yes. Because I am." Sherlock noticed that the tip of Mr. Marlowe's tongue was black.

"Of course, of course. We just need to ask." Marlowe shook his fountain pen and then wrote something on his paper. Sherlock tried to see what he was writing.

"What kind of case do you think that I have?"

Marlowe looked off into the middle distance, and absently licked the nib of his pen. "Well, the evidence is circumstantial at best. They think you have motive." He suddenly waved his pen in Sherlock's direction, "Do you have motive?"

"I disliked him. I suppose that they will bring that up. We often had words, but nothing more."

"Good, well, bad, but good to know. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say."

"There was nothing that I stood to gain by his death, especially his suspicious death. If he'd been sacked or left, I might have been promoted, but it's also possible that someone else would have been brought in. I think that anyone would tell you that I'm too level headed to do something so rash. I would know that suspicion would fall on me."

"Mmm-hmm," Marlowe nodded and continued to write. "But you did have the best opportunity. What about this Mr. Dimmock? Would he have wanted Mr. Anderson dead?"

"No more or less than I did, I suppose."

"But only you or he would have had a reason to be in that hall at night, except for the two young boys, correct?" Marlowe stopped writing and looked at Sherlock again with a penetrating gaze that never wavered.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. He scrubbed his hands through his hair. After four days in jail, having disarrayed hair was the least of his worries or problems. There was the issue, wasn't it. Even if they could dismiss his motive and find motives for others, only he and Dimmock had opportunity. Mr. Gregson's room was downstairs. Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Turner might come into the men's hall if one of the male servants was ill, but none of the maids would ever have been there anymore than he or Dimmock, or even Mr. Gregson, would have gone into the ladies' hall. So who did that leave?

One of the family or one of the guests. It kept coming back to that didn't it? Someone who had no qualms about entering the servants' quarters.

Sherlock described his theory of the missing letters. Mr. Marlowe listened attentively and filled his piece of paper with notes. "Blackmail would certainly be a strong motive for murder and would be enough to make someone risk coming to the servant's quarters to see Anderson. And you're absolutely certain that you heard nothing and saw nothing?"

"Yes. I wish to God that I had." Sherlock chuckled. Mr. Marlowe waited expectantly. "If I had heard something, I might have saved Anderson's life rather than being accused of taking it."


	13. Mr Darling's Secrets

When it came to it, meeting with Clare Darling proved easier than John had expected. All it took was a letter offering his services as a doctor, hinting that he knew of her troubles. He felt terribly guilty. Mrs. Darling was so desperate for a child that John suspected he could have told her he had a magic stone to keep under her pillow and she'd have taken it eagerly.

"Doctor Watson," she said as she entered his surgery on Saturday afternoon, "I was very surprised to receive your letter. You were an army doctor, correct? I wouldn't have thought that you knew a great deal about women's troubles."

John was not completely without experience with women's issues, although not as much as he had suggested in his letter. There had been army wives who were reluctant to trust the native doctors, and while most went to midwives for childbirth, he had consulted during pregnancies and when the births proved difficult. He had even been called for an Indian officer's wife after the poor woman had been in labor for twenty-seven hours. She was half mad with pain and fear and in the end, the child was born dead died of septicemia two days later. There was nothing that John could have done.

"Well," he said, "I'll examine you first, and then we can discuss what I think we can do."

Later, when Mrs. Darling was getting dressed again behind the screen, John looked at the slides under the microscope. They confirmed what he'd already suspected from Jane Larkin's veiled comments.

"Doctor Watson?" she asked coming out from behind the screen. Clare Darling was a compact woman of average height with fine blonde hair that seemed determined to slip from its combs. She looked tired and drawn but there was a taut intensity to her that hinted at a hidden strength.

"Please, please have a seat." John kept stuffed armchairs near the window of the surgery for just this kind of discussion. "Now then, just a few questions; how old are you now?"

"Forty-one."

"I see."

"I know that's a bit late to start a family," she interjected quickly, "but I had an aunt who had her second child at forty-four and—"

John held up his hand and smiled to stop her. He knew that her childlessness had nothing to do with her age, but he needed to lead into it as gently as he could. "How old were you when you married Mr. Darling?"

"Thirty-four." She paused and looked down at her hands. Unconsciously she brushed wisps of hair back from her face and tucked them behind her ears. "I know…" she looked up, nervously, "I know the fault's not with him."

"Oh?" John asked surprised.

She looked back at her hands, "He has a child. A daughter with a…with an unsuitable woman. He pays for her education so that she can become a governess."

"Do you know…did your husband know several such unsuitable women?"

"No— I mean, yes. Before we were married, but I told him that that had to stop if we were to marry. I know some women who can…tolerate that, but I never could."

John nodded. "Have you had miscarriages?"

"Yes," she answered in a small voice drawn thin with grief.

"How many?"

"F— five.""

"I see. And none of these came to term?" He spoke as soothingly as he could.

"One…I carried one baby to four months and I was so happy because I thought, I really thought… Her words trailed off and she cried silently.

John offered her his handkerchief, one of several clean ones kept in the room for patients to use.

"Doctor Watson?" She looked up at him and he saw again that sturdy resolve in her face. "Please tell me what you think."

"Mrs. Darling, there's no easy way for me to say this. You have a disease, a disease that could affect your ability to have children. I'm afraid that you have syphilis. From what you tell me of your husband's behavior before your marriage, you most likely contracted it from him. The disease…in some ways it's a mercy that you didn't have a child as…" The look on Mrs. Darling's face stopped him.

"Syphilis? But I never…" She trailed off and her face hardened. The look scared him. He had expected tears, hysterics, had smelling salts in his pocket, but not this icy fury. She shook her head and barked a laugh. "The infection and the treatments. Treatments!"

"What happened? Please tell me, Mrs. Darling. How long do you think you've been infected? It's imperative that we get you treated immediately. There's mercury and there have been great advances using Salvarson—"

She looked at him coldly. "When we returned from our honeymoon I was very sick. My doctor said that it was an infection that I had contracted abroad. He 'treated' me with pills. And he has continued to give me 'vitamins' ever since."

John nodded. He had wondered why her own doctor hadn't diagnosed the symptoms. "Well, as long as you've been getting treatments—"

"Oh, yes. Courtesy of my doctor. No doubt my husband asked him to be discrete." She put her face in her hands. "What a fool I've been! What a fool." She looked back up. "I, an educated, intelligent woman, falling for such a lie. Treatments or no treatments, I will never have a child, will I?"

John considered. No, he would not lie to her when she had been lied to already. "No. I suspect that your uterus was so scared after the first infection, or possibly the first miscarriage, that you will never be able to bring a child to term."

"I see." She started to gather up her handbag and put on her gloves.

"Mrs. Darling? You've just had a terrible shock. Would you like me to make you some tea, call someone to sit with you? You can certainly wait here and take as much time as you need to collect yourself."

"Collect myself? I am fully collected. That man— that man has ruined my life. He gave me false hope for years and watched as each death took a piece of my soul. And he conspired with a medical man to keep up the lie to protect himself. No, I am fully collected. I will see him ruined for this. After today there will be nowhere for him to go. He will have no money and no friends. I will see to that. Let him find solace with the filthy women he consorts with. He will never set foot in my house again."

She rose to go and John rose with her. He had not expected such anger; grief yes, but not this avenging fury although he wasn't sure how this news helped Sherlock.

In the hall she turned back, "Doctor Watson, tell me what prompted you to offer me your services as a doctor? Was it servant's gossip? Did the whole world know about my husband? Very few people knew of my losses and almost no one knew about my illness outside of my closest friends."

He paused. He didn't want to betray Jane's confidence but he didn't want to lie to this woman who had already been used so badly by those she trusted. "It was suggested to me by someone else that…that your husband might be being blackmailed."

"So it is possible that he has never given up his whores. Thank you for your honesty, Doctor Watson. We will not meet again, I think." And with that, she swept out of his house to her waiting car.

By Monday morning the papers were full of the dual stories of the Mrs. Darling's accusations of adultery against her husband and the death of Anderson and arrest of Sherlock. Speculation was rife whether the two events were connected, and for that John had no answer.

Besides the immediate family members that John was leaving to Caroline, only the Charles remained on John's list of suspects to visit.


	14. Two Meetings

Margaret Easton was as lovely as Caroline had described: slightly taller than her sister, with hair a dark chestnut rather than Caroline's dull mousy colour. She was well dressed in a brown coat with fur trim, and held herself with more careful poise than her younger sister. Only their eyes were the same: dark, round and lively.

"Lady Margaret," John nodded politely, "a pleasure to meet you."

"And you, Doctor Watson. Caroline has told me…so much about you."

"Not all my secrets, I hope," John said with what he prayed was a relaxed laugh. He gave Caroline a quick glance.

Lady Margaret looked between them then straightened her gloves, "Caroline, I will be waiting in that hat shop in one half hour. That is all we have before we need to return home. Do not be late." She tilted her head at John. "I trust you to keep her out of trouble, Doctor Watson. Good day." And with that she swept gracefully out of the tea shop.

Caroline had sent John a note with Timmy, the boot boy, as soon as she and the Lestrades had arrived in London. 'My sister and I will be hat shopping at two in the afternoon on Monday. Will you be able to meet for me for tea? Margaret will oblige.'

"I bribed him to bring the note," she giggled as they sat down, "with chocolates and a half crown."

John smiled, "And your sister, did you bribe her as well?"

"Margaret indulges me."

"You didn't tell her, I mean, she doesn't think..."

Caroline opened her eyes quite wide and said solemnly, "I told her we were engaged."

"WHAT?" John glanced around at the startled faces of the other patrons, smiled feebly and patted Caroline's hand.

"Don't be silly. I told her that I'd made a friend and that I was helping you. Unbelievably she trusts me. Now, I really think we should order something, and I want a bun."

John laughed, "You really are a child sometimes," but he meant it kindly.

"So, tell me what you've learned," she exclaimed as soon as the waitress had brought the tea. "Was it you who told Mrs. Darling that her husband had mistresses?"

"Yes. She took it differently than I expected, I must say."

"She and my aunt have been on the telephone about it all morning. We don't have a telephone at home in the castle, or I'm sure that Aunt Alice would have called my mother as well. As it is, she's written a very long letter. At least Mummy will have a way to read it now. Who else did you speak with?"

John related his conversations with Jane about the letters being returned and how she pointed him in the right direction with Mrs. Darling.

"I met with Mrs. Charles this morning," he continued. "I'm getting disturbingly good at inviting myself into people's houses. After much pointless small talk and too much weak tea, she let slip that their money woes would soon be over."

"From Anderson's death?" Caroline asked, sounding excited, hopeful and confused at the same time.

"I thought that too, and I was trying to figure out if it was because they were no longer being blackmailed, but when I asked if it had something to do with Anderson's death, she seemed to not even remember him. No, she went on to say that they were finally free of Sir Neville!"

"Sir Neville" exclaimed Caroline.

"Yes! That was my reaction too. Somehow they must have gotten the money they owed. AND she said that it happened the weekend of the murder."

"I wonder where on earth they could have gotten the money to pay Sir Neville?"

"Borrowed it from someone else? But then they'd have to pay that back as well, and she seemed to suggest that they would have the money to send their sons back to a good school. At any rate, it had nothing to do with Anderson. I doubt that he leant them the money. Although, if Anderson was playing Shylock, that would mean that they wouldn't have to pay it back…" He shook his head in frustration. "No, she genuinely didn't remember Anderson. If their problems were tied up with him, she would have remembered."

They sipped tea in silence for several minutes.

"Were you able to learn anything from the staff or family?"

She sighed and fiddled with her spoon. "Not a great deal, I'm afraid. I wasn't able to be as brave as you. I asked Molly if she knew anything about who would want to kill Anderson and she seemed shocked, poor thing. She admitted that no one liked Anderson. Even Sally, who was probably the closest to him, didn't really seem to like him.

"Sally hated Holmes, though. But she wouldn't speak to me, so I don't know why. Just said that Holmes had had it too easy for too long and deserved anything he got. " She looked down miserably.

"It's alright. Sher— Holmes said to focus on the guests. Did you learn anything upstairs? Did you ask your aunt why she was arguing with Anderson?"

"Yes, but she said it was a domestic matter. Anderson had spilled the soup or some such thing, chipped the crystal perhaps."

Something about that didn't sit right in John's mind. Caroline had been distressed at the time, felt that the argument was more heated than a simple reprimand of a servant. But that was again something that Sherlock would understand better. John gritted his teeth in frustration.

"And your uncle, Lord Lestrade? Were you able to speak to him?"

"Ye-es." There was more twiddling of the spoon. "All he would say was that he hoped that the facts would come out at the trial. And that I shouldn't let myself dwell on it. It was morbid." She made a face and stuck out her tongue. "The trial is Thursday, but you must know that. It's in the papers. Uncle Gregory is called to testify, but none of the rest of us. Has the lawyer spoken to you? It seems he spoke to Uncle Gregory even though Uncle is called for the prosecution."

"I received a telegram from him this morning asking me to come to his office this afternoon. I hope that he does ask me to testify. Then I'd have a reason to go back down. I could visit him!"

"Wouldn't that be dangerous?"

John shrugged. "I don't care about my safety. I feel like we've found out all of these things, and yet none of it adds up. We have to get the information to him. He'll know what it all means. We just have to get it to him. "

John sat in Mr. Marlowe's office's waiting for the man to return with the barrister, Mr. Donaldson. The office was startlingly austere with none of the chaos of files that John would have expected from a busy solicitor. There were four stacks of paper on the desk, each with perfectly squared corners, and two fountain pens lined up parallel to the edge of the desk furthest from John.

When Mr. Marlowe returned, he was accompanied by a young man with flaming ginger hair. A very young man. John felt a prickling of unease. Was this really the best that Colin had been able to find?

"Doctor Watson," Marlowe presented the young man, "Mr. Donaldson, Esquire. As I mentioned, he will be representing the accused servant from Carleton Hall, Mr. Holmes. Do you remember him? I believe he acted as your valet." He moved around the desk and sat down. Mr. Donaldson perched on a stool in the corner.

"Yes, yes, of course I remember him. He was quite…quite a good servant."

"Just so. That seems to be the general consensus regarding his performance as a servant. There was little complaint about Anderson either. It seems to have been a very well-run and well-respected household. Up until that weekend. In addition to the murder, there is the Darling scandal. Quite a merry time it seems. You were the last to see him." Mr. Marlowe paused expectantly.

"Who?" Mr. Marlowe spoke so rapidly that John was having trouble following, especially as it was voiced as a statement, not a question.

"Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, yes, I suppose I was."

"You told the police that he left you at midnight?"

"Yes, that's right. I can testify to that. In court, I mean, if he ne— you need." 'Must be careful,' John thought to himself.

"No. That won't be necessary. We're just going over the police report to make sure that we have all of the facts before us. We're speaking to several of the guests as well as the family. We'll be going down tomorrow to speak to Mr. Holmes again and to the servants at the Hall."

John winced. "Left it a bit late, haven't you, to talk to the servants. The trial's Thursday."

Mr. Marlowe looked at him over his half-moon spectacles. "I preferred to wait until the family had come up to London. I find that servants are more apt to speak clearly when they are not distracted by duties."

'And fear of consequences,' thought John. Perhaps Mr. Marlowe was a good choice.

"The report also says that you viewed the body in your capacity as a medical doctor," Mr. Marlowe continued.

"Yes. Lord Lestrade woke me on Sunday morning. I dressed hastily and went with him to the attic room. Mr. Anderson had been dead some hours, had been strangled with his own tie and laid out neatly on the bed with his face covered by the sheet."

Mr. Marlowe looked up sharply. "You say that his face was covered by the sheet? You are sure of that? Could it have been done by Lord Lestrade or the butler, Mr. Gregson, as a sign of respect?"

"I don't know. But I don't think so. They seemed very intent on not disturbing the crime scene."

From his corner Mr. Donaldson said, "That wasn't in the—"

"Yes, I know," Mr. Marlowe replied.

"Do you think—?" Mr. Donaldson spoke as rapidly as Mr. Marlowe.

"Definitely possible. Mustn't jump."

"Yes. That adds the suggestion of—"

"Just so," Mr. Marlowe nodded and wrote in perfect copperplate on a sheet of paper.

This entire exchange took place so quickly that John could barely follow. The two men seemed to have a shorthand unto themselves. John began to feel better about their ability to help Sherlock.

The solicitor turned back to John. "When he left you, did Mr. Holmes seem agitated in any way? Confused, angry, unhappy?"

'He left me glowing from a night of passion,' John thought to himself. Aloud he said, "No, he seemed completely in control of himself as he had been the whole weekend. A model servant, as I said."

"Thank you." The nib of the pen scratched across the page. "That will be all, Doctor Watson. Thank you for coming to see us at such short notice. Mr. Donaldson will see you out." Mr. Marlowe did not stand up and continued writing.

There were a dozen things that John wanted to say or ask, but all would have revealed too much about his relationship with Sherlock.


	15. The Trial Begins

Sherlock paced. He felt he knew every crack in the brickwork and every stain on the floor of the ten by ten cell. His trial was the next day and he was no closer to saving himself than he'd been on the day he was arrested. He paused in his walk and cocked his head, listening, as noises came down the hall.

"I'm Doctor Watson. I've come to examine the prisoner to see that he's fit for his trial tomorrow."

There were some mumbling noises; presumably, the guard protesting. Then footsteps as the two men walked down to the cell. Sherlock kept his eyes on the floor. What the hell was John doing?

The guard opened the cell door and John came in.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm here to examine you. If you could just remove your shirt. Some privacy, please officer." The guard turned his back, and took a few steps down the corridor, but didn't leave them alone entirely.

"John, what are you playing at?" Sherlock hissed.

Aloud John said, "Your shirt, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock pushed his braces down and slipped his shirt from his shoulders. They sat together on the bench, John shielding Sherlock from the door.

"I needed to see you," John whispered, "to tell you what we've learned. Just…just to see you." He pulled his stethoscope from his Gladstone bag and moved the cold diaphragm across Sherlock's back. Sherlock shivered, his skin prickling from the cold metal and from the touch of John's hand.

"We don't have much time. I don't know how long the guard will leave us alone," John continued. "Mrs. Darling is divorcing her husband because he gave her syphilis."

"I read that. They let me have newspapers."

"The Charles' came into some money on that same weekend."

"Interesting. Do you know from where?"

"No. But I know that it freed them from some obligation to Sir Neville."

"They were deeply in debt to him. Fascinating. Were you able to speak with him?"

"No. I didn't know how to approach him. He disliked me on sight."

"Pity. That you couldn't speak to him, I mean. I'd rather he didn't like you. Was Lady Caroline able to speak to him or to anyone in her family?"

John moved the stethoscope to Sherlock's chest. He paused, letting his knuckle brush Sherlock's skin. "The maid, Sally I think her name was, evidently hates you."

Sherlock looked down at John's hand. "Please don't, John. I can't… Your touch is…"

"I know; me too." For the guard's benefit, "Cough, please."

Sherlock obliged, then continued quietly, "I am well aware of Sally's hatred. Anything else?"

"I'm not sure if it matters, but Lady Caroline saw Lady Lestrade arguing with Anderson the night he was murdered. She told Caroline that it was just a domestic dispute."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Really? That is interesting."

John continued the examination for show. "Is it? Do you think it will help? Tell me. I feel so helpless and the guard is becoming restless."

"It may. I'm meeting with my solicitor again soon. Thank you for that by the way. I know you were behind it."

There was a cough behind them. "Doctor Watson? Is there something wrong with the prisoner? It's only that—"

"No, no. He seems to be in good health. I'm just finishing my exam." To Sherlock, "Is there anything I can do to help? You're going— on trial tomorrow and all I've done is find out a few dirty secrets." He put his stethoscope back in his bag and closed it with a snap. "I have to come forward."

"NO. I trust Mr. Marlowe and Mr. Donaldson. At least, I believe that they have a plan. Don't put yourself in danger. You should go. Don't come to the trial! Lord Lestrade will be there. Maybe other people who know you. People will see you and there will be talk."

John looked at Sherlock's face. He had to believe that he would see him again. That Sherlock would go free.

"I'll see you again, soon."

Sherlock smiled, "I'm sure of it."

"Guard!"

As he walked from the prison he almost collided with two men walking rapidly in the opposite direction.

"Doctor Watson?" a voice called after him.

Reluctantly he turned back to face Mr. Marlowe and Mr. Donaldson, who still looked far too young to be a barrister.

Mr. Marlowe tilted his head to one side, "What brings you back to Carleton?"

"I, uh… I was asked to examine him to evaluate his health."

Whether Mr. Marlowe believed this or not was impossible to tell from his expression. "I see. I trust you found him well?"

"Yes."

"Good." The two men, brittle Mr. Marlowe and silent Mr. Donaldson, turned back towards the prison.

Abruptly John dashed after them. "How is it going? I mean, do you believe you have a strong case?"

This time it was Mr. Donaldson who spoke, but only one word. "Yes."

"It's just that…if there's anything that I can do. I might be able to add something…to his defense."

Mr. Donaldson and Mr. Marlowe exchanged glances. Mr. Marlowe stepped forward, "Doctor Watson, if you've withheld evidence from the police…"

"No. Well, no. Well, there's something, but I've been reluctant to say as it, as it…incriminates me in a lesser crime."

Again the two lawyers exchanged glances. Mr. Donaldson said, "If we put you on the stand, you would be under oath. We would not be able to protect you."

John opened his mouth to speak again, but Mr. Marlowe held up a hand. "Nor do we have any obligation of client confidentiality regarding anything you say to us now, as you are not our client."

John nodded. "But if it's a question of Mr. Holmes' life. What is your defense?"

"We believe that we have enough to create reasonable doubt. The prosecution believes that the case is a simple one and will be careless. Now, if you will excuse us, we are late to an appointment with our client."

On the morning of the trial, Sherlock was given warm water in a basin to shave, after his cold shower. He tried to tame his hair but it was impossible without Brilliantine. He managed to part it with a comb and gave it up as the best of a bad job.

Like John, Sherlock had been alarmed by Mr. Donaldson's young and naïve appearance, but through their conversations he had developed respect for the team of Marlowe and Donaldson. With his ginger hair covered by his wig and dressed in his silks, Donaldson actually looked dignified even if his cheeks were still a bit cherubic and rosy. The robes seemed to confer a majesty to him, making him stand straighter and seem larger than he had previously.

Sherlock was led to the dock behind where Marlowe and Donaldson were seated. Two guards stood with him. Lord Lestrade was in the gallery, but he didn't see anyone else from Carleton Hall. The staff had probably accompanied the rest of the family to London. It did surprise him that no one else had been called, Sally or Mr. Gregson, for instance.

The observation gallery was full of reporters hoping for a sensational story regarding the now infamous weekend at Carleton Hall. Hopefully Messers Marlowe and Donaldson would give them a worthwhile show.

After the court clerk read out the charges, Mr. Smith, barrister for the prosecution, began by calling Inspector Thompson. Mr. Smith was a portly, middle-age gentleman, unloved by his wife, given the carelessness of his grooming—most likely his own fault in marrying a much younger woman (new ring eating into his fat finger), with a mortgage he couldn't afford (no doubt to appease the younger wife), set further away from town than was comfortable. Running through these deductions made Sherlock feel calmer, more confident that he would be found not guilty and go free. To live with John. However, he resisted looking at the jury for similar clues, afraid that he would see their biases and weaknesses and his sealed fate therein.

Inspector Thompson, looking smug, took the oath and the trial began.

"Inspector Thompson, please, in your own words, tell us what happened on the morning of 23 November of this year."

Thompson began with all of the self-important arrogance he had shown in the investigation at the house. "A call came into the station at nine saying that there had been a murder at Carleton Hall. My sergeant came to my house to inform me. I had just finished my breakfast and a hearty one too, from Mrs. Thompson…"

Sherlock sighed. It was going to be a long trial if Thompson went on like this. Mercifully, Mr. Smith gave a cough to hurry the inspector along.

"Yes, well, after I had collected my men, we went up to the Hall at approximately half past ten. Mr. Gregson, the butler of the house, took us up to the deceased's bedroom to see the body, accompanied by Holmes, the accused, who had discovered it." Thompson gave a particular emphasis to the word discovered. So, the man knew about sarcasm after all.

"I found Holmes a shifty sort who gave a poor excuse for his whereabouts at the time of the murder."

"Objection!" Mr. Donaldson half rose from his seat. "The witness is stating opinion, not fact."

The judge, non-descript behind the robes of his office, nodded and turned to Thompson, "Inspector, please restrict yourself to the facts of the case as you saw them."

"Well, as I said, we went up to look at the dead man. He was dead on the bed, strangled, and the room showed signs of a struggle. I confirmed that Mr. Holmes had the room next door and asked him if he'd heard anything. He gave a story— said that he'd taken a long walk and hadn't been in his room for the first part of the night when the coroner believes the man was killed."

"I see," said Mr. Smith. "And then what happened?"

"I arranged to interview the servants. I quickly got it out of them that Holmes and Anderson had nearly come to blows the day before with Holmes threatening Anderson with bodily harm. The butler had warned them that one of them would have to go. Given Holmes inadequate explanation of his whereabouts, I knew that he was guilty and took him down to the station for further questioning."

Mr. Donaldson stood again, "My Lord!"

The judge sighed, "Jury will disregard Inspector Thompson's conclusion on Mr. Holmes' guilt or innocence as opinion and not fact."

Mr. Smith gave Thompson a warning glance and went on, "Upon further questioning, did the accused confess?"

Here the inspector looked uncomfortable. "Not as such."

"Not as such?"

"He showed signs of uncontrollable temper during questioning. Was arrogant and proud. He knew far too much about the nature of the murder to not be involved. Besides which he had the room next door and the young boys on the other side of the hall couldn't have done it because it would have taken some force."

"I see. And so it is your learned conclusion that Mr. Holmes had means, motive and opportunity?"

"Absolutely. No one else could have done it."

"Thank you, Inspector Thompson. No further questions."

The judge nodded at Mr. Donaldson. "Your witness."

Mr. Donaldson rose. "Inspector Thompson, did you pursue any other line of investigation, or were you so certain of Mr. Holmes' guilt that you neglected all other evidence?"

Thompson's face became even more red, "What are you saying about my investigations? I'll have you know—"

Mr. Donaldson raised one eyebrow. "We have heard that you believed him guilty from the first moment that you saw him. I was merely inquiring as to whether you were suspicious of anyone else, or considered other possible scenarios."

"Of course I did. I did my duty!"

"And those other investigations were…?"

"I…we… none of them had any value."

"Mmmm. I see. Did you by any chance consider any of the guests upstairs as suspects?"

"What? Of course not. Why would they have murdered a servant?"

"Servants know many things about the people they serve. Some of those secrets might be worth…killing for. Infidelity, for instance."

This time it was Mr. Smith who jumped up, less than gracefully, "Objection! Is there a question in there or is the learned gentleman merely soliloquizing?"

Mr. Donaldson bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Inspector Thompson, is it possible that someone upstairs might have had motive to kill Mr. Anderson?"

"Yes, but—"

"Did you consider and investigate any of those motives?"

Inspector Thompson looked sullen. "No. I thought them a waste of time." Defiantly, "I still do!"

"I see." Mr. Donaldson looked down at his papers as if the questioning was over, but then looked up sharply. "Just a few more things, if I may. When you say that there were signs of a struggle, what do you mean?"

"The room was in disarray."

"Disarray, hmm. Could Anderson simply have been untidy in his personal habits? Could you describe the disarray? What made you think that there had been a struggle?"

Sherlock had to hide a smirk at that. Mr. Gregson would have been crimson with apoplexy at the idea he let a servant have untidy quarters.

"Things were strewn about. Furniture, clothes." Thompson wasn't sure where this was going and it was making him defensive.

"Furniture? Was anything broken? As might happen if two grown men were to fight in a small room?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? You were there, weren't you?"

"My men do the leg work! My job is to…assess the evidence…later."

"And yet, you were quite certain of Mr. Holmes' guilt on the spot…without evidence."

"I was backed up— it was backed up by the evidence."

"Which you failed to notice."

"I…you! You're twisting things. Look here, I've been a detective for longer than you've been out of short pants, and I know what a murderer looks like—!"

Mr. Donaldson held up a hand, "Your honor, please instruct the witness to restrict himself to answering the questions as posed."

"Mr. Thompson. You will restrict yourself to answering the questions and nothing more," said the judge.

"I'm not on trial here!" Thompson yelled.

There was muttering and shuffling in the gallery, whether in outrage at Thompson's treatment by Mr. Donaldson, or in appreciation of it, Sherlock wasn't sure.

Donaldson waited until the disturbance had died down. "Moving on, Inspector Thompson. You say that the deceased had been strangled. Was there anything unusual about the method of strangulation?"

"What? No. He was dead from being strangled!"

Donaldson sighed as if despairing of Thompson's stupidity. "How was he strangled? Bare hands, garrote, rope?"

"With his own tie."

"Mmm. And was there anything peculiar about the way he'd been arranged on the bed?"

"He was in bed."

"So he looked calm, peaceful even. Aside from being dead?"

"Y—es."

"And his face. Was it covered?"

Thompson look sullen. "I don't recall."

Again Donaldson's eyebrow went up. "Don't recall?"

"It would be in the report."

"Yes. The report." He looked at his partner, Mr. Marlowe, who slid some papers across the desk at him. "The report says nothing about it."

Thompson settled back, smug again, "Then it wasn't covered."

"And that is your word?"

"Of course!"

"Thank you. Just one more, if I may. In your long experience, how many murders have you investigated?"

Inspector Thompson didn't want to answer. He bit his lip and tugged at his hands. "One."

"One besides this one?"

"Just this one."

"Thank you. No further questions."


	16. Lord Lestrade's Testimony

The prosecution called the coroner next. He was a mole-like man who peered at the world through horn-rimmed glasses and was named, amusingly, Mr. Digger. He answered in short, dry sentences: yes, he had supervised the removal of the body from the house; yes, the man had been strangled by his own necktie; no, he had not performed an autopsy. The police had not requested one.

Mr. Donaldson took to the witness with glee. "How was the body placed when you found it?"

"It was on its back, as I said."

"Face covered or uncovered?"

"Uncovered. The sheet had been pulled back as well, revealing the torso."

"Hmm. I see. Now," Donaldson moved some papers on the table beside him, "the victim died of strangulation. Did the body show any other signs of injury? Besides being dead? Any signs that the deceased had been in a fight? Had struggled for his life?"

"No."

"Then are we to suppose that the victim was surprised by his attacker? Or did he welcome death?"

Mr. Smith stood, "Your honor, calls for speculation."

"Withdrawn. Tell us about the way he was strangled."

"He was strangled by a necktie, confirmed as his own necktie—"

"Not his livery bowtie?"

"No. A long narrow tie. It appeared to have been slipped around the neck, tied in a knot and pulled tight, restricting the victim's airflow."

"A slipknot?"

"That was an odd thing. I'd never seen a knot quite like it before. It was complicated, but effective. It allowed the perpetrator to pull the tie tight quickly."

"The victim would have been surprised, unable to struggle?"

"He might have struggled, but it wouldn't have done him any good. Once pulled, that knot would have stayed put."

"Could the attacker have come at the victim from behind? Surprised him? Then moved the knot to the front?"

"Hmmm….possibly. Blood pooling from the body being on its back would have obscured bruising at the back of neck."

"Then, in your expert _opinion_, could the body have been laid on the bed after death rather than being killed in the position it was found?"

"Yes."

"You say that the police didn't order an autopsy?"

"No. There didn't seem to be any point."

"There didn't seem to be any point. Did you discuss any of these curious facts with the police?"

"They didn't ask."

"Thank you."

"The prosecution calls The Right Honorable Lord Gregory Lestrade."

The reporters, bored by the testimony of the coroner, leaned forward, eager to hear and see his Lordship testify about the death of one servant, supposedly at the hands of another.

Mr. Smith adjusted his robes. "Please tell us about the events of 23 November."

"Mr. Gregson, my butler, came to my room at half eight to tell me that Anderson was dead. After I had dressed, I fetched Doctor Watson—a medical doctor, and guest that weekend—and we went up to look at the body. Doctor Watson estimated that Anderson had been dead for six or seven hours. I then went and spoke to my wife, her Ladyship, and we agreed to try to maintain a level of normalcy as far as possible. The servants were at chapel at that time and when they returned we— her Ladyship and myself— went and spoke to each of our guests individually to tell them what had happened. Many chose to take trays in their rooms rather than come down for breakfast, and at nine we joined the others in the chapel for prayer.

"I believe that, when the servants returned, Gregson spoke to them and contacted the police. I know that the police were there when we came back, interviewing the servants. After that, Inspector Thompson came upstairs to speak to the guests. He told us that there was no reason for anyone to stay for further questioning, and we felt it was better to end the weekend early under the circumstances."

"Of course. And then what did the police do?"

"Inspector Thompson told me that they believed Holmes to be guilty. I was shocked, but they were adamant. Then they arrested him and took him away to jail."

"Alright. You say you were shocked. How would you describe Holmes as a servant?"

"As a servant he performs his duties very well. He is very attentive to detail. If he's given a job, you know that it will be completed perfectly."

"Did you ever have any reason to be unhappy with him?"

"Sometimes…sometimes he could be a bit fresh."

"Please elaborate."

"He would interject his opinion regarding household matters: guest lists, picture arrangement, other servants, things like that. I know that Gregson reprimanded him on more than one occasion regarding his air of superiority and treatment of other servants."

"Treatment of other servants, you say. Was he violent, abusive?"

"Oh, no! Nothing like that. Or rather, he might make cutting remarks regarding their work, but never violent. He never struck anyone. We would have dismissed him."

"What do you know of his relationship with the deceased?"

"I…I don't believe that they were friends."

"What made you think that?"

"Gregson mentioned, on several occasions, that he had had to reprimand them for…I suppose arguing would be the word."

"Were you aware that Mr. Gregson had had to separate the two men on Saturday afternoon?"

"No, I was not." Lord Lestrade paused. "I'm sure if there had been any substance to it, Gregson would have informed me." He paused again, a little uncertain. "No, I'm sure that he would have. If there were anything to worry about."

"Still, he had mentioned such incidents in the past?"

Lord Lestrade's eyes flickered to Sherlock, standing in the dock, "Yes."

"Was there anything else about Mr. Holmes' character that the jury should know about and consider?"

Mr. Donaldson started to rise to object, but Mr. Marlowe touched his arm and shook his head.

Lord Lestrade took so long to answer that Mr. Smith looked to the judge to appeal.

"You are under oath, your Lordship, please answer the question."

"I believe he may have spied on us. Not— not maliciously, but sometimes… sometimes he seemed to know things."

"Things?"

"Things about people, our guests, the family. It was if he could read our minds. I don't know how he did it. But…" and here again his Lordship looked uncomfortable as if hesitant to reveal something, "my wife says that he was eavesdropping on a conversation that we had before dinner that Saturday. The Saturday before, you know, that Sunday."

There was twittering in the gallery. So Lady Lestrade had seen him that evening. That was unfortunate.

Mr. Smith thanked Lord Lestrade for his time, his obsequiousness depressingly obvious.

Mr. Donaldson rose, and while he seemed deferential, his questions were as sharp and fast as those he had addressed to Inspector Thompson and Mr. Digger.

"Thank you for your time today, your Lordship. We appreciate how difficult this entire situation has been for you and your family. Now, we've heard about how Mr. Holmes was never violent and did his job well. Could you tell us about the deceased?"

Mr. Smith leapt up. He had looked distinctly less happy as the trial had progressed. "Objection, your honor! The victim is not on trial here."

"Goes to motive, my Lord."

The judge waved his hand and said, "I'll allow it. Continue, Mr. Donaldson, but tread carefully."

"Of course, m'Lord. Now, your Lordship, Mr. Anderson?"

"I don't wish to speak ill of the dead."

"I respect your delicate sensibilities, your Lordship, but a man's life is at stake."

While he was impressed with the quick intelligence of both Mr. Marlowe and Mr. Donaldson, and with the way they had carried out their own investigation, Sherlock was unsure of their overall strategy. They had told him that they were first going to try for a dismissal and if that didn't work, they hinted that they had one more ace up their sleeve. He was therefore uncertain how Lord Lestrade's opinion of Anderson, which he was fairly sure could not be a positive one, could help his case. If Anderson was painted as the bitter and incompetent person that he was, then surely that would show an even greater motive?

"You have to understand that Anderson had been with us since he was fourteen. I…I don't think that he enjoyed being a servant."

What an absurd statement, thought Sherlock. It had probably never occurred to Lord Lestrade that people didn't enjoy being servants. Some took pride in their work and some didn't. That was all.

"In what way?"

"He was sometimes careless in his duties. He took reprimand and correction badly, sullenly. If not, if not for the fact that he had been with us for so long, we might not have kept him on."

"I see," said Mr. Donaldson smoothly. "So, given a choice between keeping Mr. Holmes and Mr. Anderson, you would have been more likely to sack Mr. Anderson."

Lord Lestrade looked cross, "I wasn't likely to sack anyone! Especially this close to the holidays. It would have been uncharitable to begin with, and it would have put the household in disarray. As it has, actually!"

Mr. Donaldson tilted his head just so to acknowledge his Lordship's predicament. "So it is unlikely that either man would have genuinely believed himself in danger of being sacked? Especially this close to the holidays."

"I should think not. Holmes has been with us since he was sixteen as well. They would have truly had to do something unforgivable to be let go."

Like murder one another, thought Sherlock.

"And neither man was violent in any way?"

"Just verbally, as I mentioned. And my children told me that Anderson sometimes pinched their cheeks when they were small. Although, he was only a bit older than they, so I suppose some laxity must be given."

Mr. Dondaldson quirked a small smile, presumably in acknowledgement of adolescent cruelty.

"Indeed. Therefore, murder would have been out of character for either man?"

Mr. Smith jumped up, face red. "Your honor! I must object. Leading!"

"Withdrawn," said Mr. Donaldson. To Lord Lestrade, "Neither man had ever struck another while in your employ, correct?"

"Correct."

"Your Lordship, after Mr. Holmes, you, Doctor Watson and Mr. Gregson were the first to view the room and the body. Am I correct?"

"Yes."

"Was the victim's face covered or uncovered?"

Lord Lestrade furrowed his brow in concentration. "It was…it was covered! Covered by the sheet."

"I see. Did you uncover it?"

"Only to look at the body. After, Mr. Gregson replaced the sheet so that the police could do their work."

"Was the room in disarray as the Inspector testified?"

Again his Lordship paused to consider. "I believe so. Yes, yes it was. I nearly tripped over some clothes getting to the bed."

"Over some clothes. Not broken furniture?"

"No. None of the furniture had been broken."

"Are you certain?"

"Quite certain."

"How can you be so certain?"

"After the police had taken the body, Mr. Gregson took an inventory of the room. He would have told me if anything needed to be replaced."

"But you still say that the room was in disarray. Why is that?"

"As I said, I tripped over things on my way in. It looked as though the content of the drawers had been dumped upon the floor."

"Almost as if— Did it look as though the drawers had been dug through in a search?"

"Yes, yes. That is exactly what it looked like."

"Thank you. No further questions."

The prosecution had no further witnesses, having believed that Thompson's testimony would show opportunity, the coroner's method and Lord Lestrade's motive. And that the defense would not provide much to challenge them.

The court broke for lunch, and Sherlock was returned to the courthouse cell for a cold, tasteless meal on a tin tray.

After recommencing, Mr. Donaldson requested leave to speak before calling defense witnesses and was granted it.

"My Lord, the defense council requests that all charges be dismissed." The gallery went mad.

"Silence! Silence!" bellowed the Judge. "The viewing gallery is allowed at the court's discretion and I will clear this court if need be."

The reporters subsided, pencils poised for Donaldson's next words.

The judge looked coldly at Mr. Donaldson. "On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that the prosecution has completely failed to make a case against my client. We have shown that, while the accused had opportunity, so did anyone else in the house. The means—careful strangulation by tie, the post-mortem placement of the body—do not fit with Inspector Thompson's description of a crime of passion in the heat of the moment. The room was in disarray, but as if it had been searched, not as if two large, grown men had fought one another. Further, Lord Lestrade's testimony shows that my client was neither violent, vicious nor mad.

"None of the facts add up. From the beginning, Mr. Thompson has had it in for my client. At best he was incompetent in his investigation, at worst malicious. Evidence may have been destroyed by Mr. Thompson's tampering with the body prior to the coroner's examination. Those changes were not included in the police report. It seems that Inspector Thompson failed to investigate anyone else, including the family and guests of the weekend.

"In short, the case has been bungled from beginning to end."

Mr. Smith's mouth was hanging open. The judge looked flummoxed. Sherlock risked a glance at the jury. They, too, looked surprised at Mr. Donaldson's speech. But they didn't look angry, as if dismissal would be an abuse of justice. One or two looked hopeful, as if ending the trial would allow them to be home in time for tea.

At last the judge said, "Counselors will approach."

Mr. Smith and Mr. Donaldson came up to the judge's bench and a heated discussion ensued with Mr. Smith waving his arms and Mr. Donaldson standing as still as ever.

The judge said a few words and Mr. Smith calmed down considerably. As he returned to his desk, Mr. Donaldson gave a very small shake of his head, at which Mr. Marlowe rose in his precise, spindly way and slipped from the court.

"The trial will continue," the judge said. "The defense will now call their witnesses." He held up his hand as if deflecting an unspoken objection. "Both sides will have the opportunity to speak in their closing arguments."

Mr. Smith looked smug.

Mr. Donaldson bowed his head. "Of course, my Lord. The defense then requests a short recess to prepare their first witness."

It was an odd request so soon after lunch, but after pursing his lips, the judge said, "Will ten minutes be sufficient?"

"Absolutely, my Lord," Donaldson replied.

The appeal for dismissal had failed. Sherlock assumed that whatever secret weapon his solicitors had lay in this next step.

After the judge had returned and everyone else had been seated, Mr. Donaldson took a last look at his papers and said, "The defense calls its first witness." Like all good barristers there was something of the entertainer about him. He knew that every person in the courtroom, including his own client, was waiting to see who would be called. "The defense calls Mrs. Miller Darling."

Twenty or so pens could be heard scribbling on twenty or so notepads, and every head in the court swiveled to look at the door.


	17. Mrs Darling Testifies

Mrs. Darling had dressed to the proverbial nines for her appearance in court. She wore a smart dark grey wool suit over a ruffled white silk blouse, with a fox fur wrap and a plumed hat. She didn't look like a woman scorned; she looked like a woman who had been given her life back and meant to live it with a vengeance. Sherlock could see the tiniest tremor of her gloved hand as she laid it on the Bible. She may have been suffering inside, but if so, she was hiding it well.

Mr. Donaldson made a deferential bow of his head. "Thank you for coming, Mrs. Darling. I'm sure that everyone appreciates how difficult this time is for you. Forgive me for being indelicate, but the papers are reporting that your marriage is over. Is this true?"

Mr. Smith stood up, "My Lord, I am sure that the court is not interested in Mrs. Darling's misfortunes. I fail to see—"

"My Lord, please," Donaldson held his hands open, "the relevance will become clear very shortly."

The reporters in the gallery were barely holding themselves in check. This was far more of a story than they had dared to hope for: connection between the murder and the Darling's scandal. Lord Lestrade, who had returned to the gallery after his testimony, was clearly agitated.

"Continue, Mr. Donaldson," said the Judge, "but I warn you, if this is a sensationalist ploy—"

"My Lord!" said Mr. Donaldson as indignantly as if the judge had insulted his mother.

The Judge harrumphed but gestured for the trial to continue.

"Mrs. Darling, moving on. Please tell the court about what happened between yourself and your husband on the night of the twenty-second of November."

"We retired to our room at eleven-thirty that evening. We had come down to Carleton Hall on Saturday afternoon as my husband had business in town on Saturday morning. We went up earlier than the rest of the guests as I…I had been ill and was feeling tired.

"I undressed immediately, but my husband seemed agitated. He loosened his tie but didn't finish dressing for bed. He wanted to smoke a cigar, but I told him that he should have stayed downstairs if he wanted to smoke as the smell would make me ill." She paused, and for a moment a little of the mask slipped. "We fought."

"I understand," said Mr. Donaldson. He gave her a few beats of silence, and then pushed on, "What happened then?"

"He left."

"He left? The house?"

"I mean, he left our room. The Lestrades are my friends, not his, and anyway, it must have been past midnight by then. There wouldn't have been anyone about at that hour. I couldn't think where he would go or what he would do."

"Did he return?"

"Yes. Approximately an hour later. I thought that I wouldn't be able to sleep, I was so upset, but I must have dozed because I woke up to the sound of him drawing a bath."

"Drawing a bath? Unusual time for a bath, wasn't it?"

She nodded, the feather in her hat bobbing brightly, "Not just that, but I've wouldn't have thought he knew _how_ to draw his own bath!"

Sherlock hid his smile. He doubted that Mrs. Darling knew how to draw a bath either, but it was a good jibe and probably sat well with the working class members of the jury.

"Did he give any explanation?"

"He was very flushed, but he said that he'd gone outside for a walk and was chilled to the bone. It seemed odd, as I thought he had perspiration on his brow, but he shooed me out of the washroom and took his bath."

"Was this normal for your husband? To take a walk in the middle of the night?"

"No. He's usually loath to take a walk anywhere. He is a man of leisure."

The gallery tittered.

"Did he sometimes go out at night? Take a hansom if you were in town?"

She looked down at her hands in their kidskin gloves. "Sometimes."

"And what explanation would he give then?"

"That he was going to his club."

"Ah. I see."

She suddenly blurted out, "I know now why he went out!" leaning forward in her agitation.

Mr. Donaldson held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Mrs. Darling. I must ask you to restrict yourself to answering the questions as I pose them.

Sherlock saw her shoulders rise as she took a deep breath. Her lips thinned but she kept silent.

Mr. Donaldson went on, "Did the two of you speak of the incident again in the morning?"

"Yes. When the police came. When we learned that that man, the servant, had been murdered. Mr. Darling told me not to mention his going out. He said that the police might make too much of it and it had nothing to do with the servant's death."

"What did you think of that?"

"At the time I thought nothing of it."

"Have you changed your opinion since that weekend?"

"Yes. I now know that my husband was unfaithful to me on numerous occasions. When I learned that, I became certain that he had had a tryst with someone, one of the female servants perhaps. That was why he needed to bathe when he returned to our room. But now I know that he was murdering that servant!"

The court exploded. The gallery was in chaos as some reporters scrambled out to be the first to call their newspapers for the evening edition. Others were staying put, eager to see if there were to be more revelations that could warrant an extra edition. His Lordship was forced to leave the courtroom to escape the questions of the reporters around him. Mr. Smith rose, red-faced and outraged, demanding that everything Mrs. Darling had said be struck off of the record. The judge struggled to reinstall order and to answer Mr. Smith's objections.

"I will clear this court!" the judge bellowed. "Mr. Smith, you will have the opportunity to cross-examine. Sit down! Mr. Donaldson, continue, but I warn you, if this is mere speculation…"

Mr. Donaldson smiled calmly amid the uproar, "My Lord, I assure you that this is no mere speculation. If I may?"

He turned back to his witness. "Mrs. Darling, that is a strong accusation to level against your husband. What makes you think that he murdered Mr. Anderson?"

"Because the man was blackmailing him," she replied, fully in control of her emotions again.

More reporters scrambled out of their seats, torn between leaving and listening, as each new revelation made the story more sensational.

"And how did you find this out?"

"After the news of my divorce proceedings against my husband, which he did not contest, I received a packet of letters in the mail. Most of them were from my husband to his various…whores…"

There were shocked gasps from the few women in the gallery. Mrs. Darling glanced up at them from under her hat. "Whores. I _will_ say it again. There were letters of correspondence between several of these women and my husband, including bills for hotels, clothing, even medical expenses!"

That was interesting, thought Sherlock, mentally stepping away from the ongoing trial. She had received her letters, rather her husband's letters, _after_ the story of his infidelity had broken. The letters had not been returned to Mr. Darling before that.

"How does this connect him to Mr. Anderson?"

"There was also a letter from my husband to that man, Anderson, begging him for more time to pay and begging Anderson to not come to me. It was pathetic." She spat the last word and Sherlock noticed how she could barely bring herself to say Anderson's name.

"I realized then why my husband didn't want the police told about his wandering. He murdered that servant to keep his affairs hidden."

"Where is your husband now, Mrs. Darling?"

"He fled the country with what little money he had of his own and, I believe, one of those women."

"Why did you not come forward to the police with this information?"

"I wrote a letter to that detective and told him that I believed my husband to be guilty."

"And what was his response?"

She sniffed, "He had a subordinate telephone me to say that I was letting my emotions get the better of me. I was very insulted and have complained to his superior at Scotland Yard, who is a friend of my father's."

"Thank you, Mrs. Darling. I am sorry that you have been treated so badly. I have no further questions."

Mr. Smith shuffled his papers more loudly than was necessary before addressing Mrs. Darling.

"Mrs. Darling," he said gently, "I too want to offer my sincere apologies for you being dragged into this sordid case. I understand that you must be under a great deal of strain, with a great many things on your mind. You must be very angry with your husband. Did your husband actually leave for an hour that night? I remind you that you are under oath."

Someone in the gallery could be heard saying, "For shame." And even the judge looked disapproving. Mr. Smith could see that he had made a miscalculation and attempted to rectify his mistake.

"Or rather, knowing what you know now, don't you think that it's more likely that your husband slipped away for a tryst with a parlour maid as you first surmised, distasteful as that may be to acknowledge?"

Mrs. Darling's lips disappeared into a thin line. "Are you saying that I'm lying, sir?"

"No, no! Just that you don't actually know what your husband did in that hour. Not wanting to tell the police about his absence may have been to hide his indiscretion from you. Isn't that possible?"

"It may be possible, but he has fled the country. Why would he do that if he were innocent?"

"He is shamed in the press and a pariah in his customary social circles. Don't you think that's enough of a reason?"

Mr. Donaldson stood, "Objection, my Lord. Leading the witness as well as badgering."

The judge frowned at Mr. Smith. "You will treat Mrs. Darling with the respect she deserves, Mr. Smith. Move along."

Taking a deep breath, Mr. Smith began again. "Please tell the court if you know what your husband did during that missing hour, Mrs. Darling."

Looking at him coldly, Mrs. Darling replied, "No. But Anderson was blackmailing my husband and now he's dead and my husband has left the country."

"Yes, the letters of blackmail. If those were the letters that Mr. Anderson had in his possession, how were they returned to you after his death?"

There it was again, that problem with the letters being returned, thought Sherlock. A second person was in that room that night.

Mrs. Darling looked confused, as if that had never occurred to her. "I... don— " She stopped, thought a second and then looked smug, "Clearly someone else found the letters, an honest person, and sent them to me. Perhaps one of the maids. I'm sure they would have had to clean the room after…after."

"Why didn't your husband take the letters with him?"

It was a good question. Why wouldn't the murderer have been the person who took the letters?

"I daresay he couldn't find them. He was never that bright."

There were guffaws from the gallery at that and even Mr. Marlowe cracked a smile.

This time the judge intervened, "Mr. Smith. I believe Mrs. Darling has answered your questions. Do you have anything else to ask?"

One could actually see Mr. Smith resign himself. The case was lost. A member of the aristocracy had spoken. The jury would acquit because it was much more interesting for Mr. Darling to be a fugitive than for a mere servant to be a murderer. "No, no further questions."

The jury took twenty-five minutes to find Sherlock not guilty. He was free. When they read out their decision Sherlock's knees almost gave way. The relief threatened to overwhelm him.

His lawyers were gathering up their papers. "Mr. Marlowe, Mr. Donaldson, I don't know how to thank you."

"We hate incompetence," said Mr. Marlowe.

"And stupidity," said Mr. Donaldson.

Sherlock smiled, his first real smile since that Sunday morning after the night with John. "So do I, gentlemen. So do I."

"I'm afraid that we must take our leave of you sir. We must return to London." said Marlowe.

"Is there anything more that you need from us?" asked Donaldson.

"No. Gentlemen, thank you. Thank you again." Sherlock said and made a small bow. To his surprise they both bowed back.

There was nothing else to do. Everyone seemed to have forgotten him in their haste to share the news about Mr. Darling. In a daze Sherlock walked back to the jail to collect his few belongings: sponge bag, extra clothing. The clerk smiled at him sheepishly and wrapped them up in paper and string for him. Inspector Thompson was apparently not in.

After the uproar in the courtroom, Mrs. Darling had been beset by reporters. Lord Lestrade had taken her in his car back to London to escape them. Sherlock thought about trying to telegraph John but the telegraph office was filled with reporters jostling one another to be the first to contact their papers.

He was alone to walk back to Carleton Hall. It was only when he was half way there that it occurred to him that it was possible that there was no one to let him in. The gameskeeper must have a key, he thought, and kept walking. It was dark and he was very cold by the time he reached the estate, but there was a welcoming light at the lodge.

"Holmes?" said Carter, the gameskeeper when he answered Sherlock's knock.

"I…I was acquitted, and they set me free. Can you let me into the house? I have nowhere else to go."

Carter gazed at him with some puzzlement, "Mrs. Turner is at the house. She can let you in."

"Mrs. Turner isn't in London?"

"Nope."

"Well, thank you. I'll go on."

"Yup," said Carter and shut the door.

Sherlock walked up the long promenade to the house and around to the kitchen entrance. He rang the bell wondering if he would get the same cold reception from Mrs. Turner as he had gotten from Carter, but to his surprise, she threw her arms around him as soon as she opened the door.

"Oh, Robbie! I'm so glad it wasn't you. Lord Lestrade telephoned to tell me that it was that Mr. Darling and that you were free. I didn't want to think it was you, but the police said… Oh, what am I doing leaving you freezing out here on the step. And you're even thinner if such a thing was possible. Come in. I was just making myself a bit of supper, so the kitchen's warm from the stove and there's a little fire in my parlour where we can talk."

She bustled away down the hall and Sherlock followed. The kitchen felt blissfully hot compared to the outside. He sat down and Mrs. Turner poured him a cup of tea from the pot.

"I've made a bit of stew, and there's bread and cheese that can easily stretch to two. I'm sure that no one fed you there."

"Thank you?" He realized that he sounded almost puzzled as if her kindness was surprising. "Why aren't you up in London with the family?"

"Oh, his Lordship and his valet needed someone to look after them. Now that the trial's over, I'm sure his Lordship will join them."

She brought the soup and a loaf of bread to the table and settled across from him.

"Did he…" Sherlock began, "Did his Lordship say what I was to do?"

"I'm sure he'll tell you tomorrow. He said that he'd be returning in the morning to make sure that the house was shut up tight."

Sherlock nodded.

He took a spoonful of the hearty soup. After the miserable rations in jail, the baskets having stopped when Lady Caroline went to London, the soup was almost too rich. He broke off some bread and dipped it in the soup.

"Imagine. Mr. Darling," Mrs. Turner tutted. "Poor Mr. Anderson. Mind you, he was hard to love sometimes. But then, sometimes so were you."

Sherlock looked into his bowl. "I am sorry about any trouble I may have caused you and Mr. Gregson over the years."

"Oh, dear, no! I didn't mean... You're just spirited, that's all. Anderson came to us so young. He and Sally."

"He and Sally came together? They're not related."

"No, but they were at the orphanage together, Fernwood in Little Shepperton. We've brought in several children from there over the years. It's one of Lady Lestrade's causes."

That was interesting, thought Sherlock, but somehow he couldn't quite put his finger on why. He was still cold and without the tension and stress of the past few weeks keeping him alert, he felt profoundly tired.

"Just look at you, shivering and wilting there. You must be just shattered."

"I… I think I will go up to bed."

"Nonsense. I won't have you cold and alone up there in the attic. I'll make you up a cot in Mr. Gregson's parlour and we'll build the fire up nice and high."

"Mr. Gregson won't approve."

"Yes, well, Mr. Gregson isn't here. Why don't you have a bath as well. Go up and get some clean things from your room and I'll fill the old tub with nice hot water for you. You can bathe in front of the stove and then go right to sleep. Don't you worry about a thing." She reached out and patted his hand. "I'm just so glad that you're safe and that it wasn't you that did it."

Sherlock took a lamp and trudged up the familiar, worn stairs to his room. He walked past Anderson's old room. The bed was stripped and the mattress rolled up. His own room was exactly as he'd left it; whoever had retrieved his clothing had put everything back as they'd found it. It seemed alien. Like it wasn't his anymore. He retrieved a nightshirt, his slippers and dressing gown and went back downstairs.

After his bath, he curled up on the cot. Hard as it was, it was more comfortable than the prison bunk, and he fell into a deep sleep almost immediately.

In the morning, Mrs. Turner rapped on the door, "Robbie, his Lordship telephoned to say he'll be back at eleven and would like to see you. I've got some coffee and eggs for you in the kitchen."

At eleven Sherlock walked through the house to the library where his Lordship was waiting. The furniture in the rest of the house was covered in sheets, the shutters drawn tight closing out the winter light.

Lord Lestrade looked up and smiled, a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless. "Ah, Holmes. So glad… So glad things turned out for the best…well, for you. I mean, I can't… Well, Mr. Darling. Who would have thought he had it in him. She's better off without him. Poor woman, she wanted a child so badly."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say, so he said, "Thank you, sir."

"I know… Well, this is awkward, but I'm afraid it's for the best that you… it would be awkward if you… I mean, you'll get two months pay and what you're owed, and I will be very happy to write you a letter of recommendation whenever you need. You do see, don't you?"

"Of course, sir. As you say, it would be awkward. Thank you, sir."

"Do you… do you have somewhere to go? Your mother is still living, correct?"

"Yes, sir. I have…friends in London. I believe that I will go there first and then visit my mother."

Lord Lestrade looked down for a moment, then back up, "About what I said in court…"

"Please, sir. Don't trouble yourself."

"No, no. You have always been an excellent servant."

"Thank you, sir."

"Well, you may go. I'm sure you have a few things to pack. I'll be going to London in an hour with Mrs. Turner. Do you think you can be ready by then? If so, I can give you a ride to the train station."

"Thank you, sir. Is there anything else?"

"No, no. Finish your packing."

Sherlock turned, but at the door he paused and turned back, "It's, it's always been an honor serving you and your family, your Lordship."

The two men smiled at one another. As close to equals as they had ever been.

Sherlock's smile widened as he headed up the stairs. He could be there tonight. He could be with John tonight. He would send a telegram letting John know before boarding the train.


	18. Baker Street

Sherlock's telegram to John had said only that he would be at Baker Street by seven, not the train he would be taking. He wasn't sure that he could bear it: to see John there at the station, after everything, restricted to acting as employer and employee.

It was dark and drizzly by the time he reached 221 Baker Street, but there was light in every window of the townhouse, and the halo around the streetlamp seemed warmer than it had in any other part of the city. He knocked on the door tentatively at first, and then more forcefully.

John opened the door and pulled Sherlock in from the night, then slammed the door behind them. Without a word he rushed Sherlock through the vestibule into the front hall and and shoved him against the wall. Sherlock's valise slipped from his fingers to the floor, unnoticed, as John kissed him, catching him by surprise, leaving him breathless.

Oh, how he wanted the kiss to never stop, but he needed to breathe and when he did he caught a smell in the air… "John. John! I think there's something burning."

John pulled back, lips still pursed from the interrupted kiss and sniffed the air, "Oh, Lord, the chop!" He dashed away down the hall leaving Sherlock, startled, a bit bereft and more than a little frustrated. It did give him an opportunity to look at the rest of the hallway. The stairs to the second floor rose on the left, carpeted in a worn oriental runner with brass stair rods. There were three doors along the right side of the hall in addition to the door at the back that John had disappeared through, while the wall at the side of the stair had coat hooks and a long padded bench for patients to wait. A telephone sat on an occasional table near the bottom of the stair. He hung his overcoat on one of the hooks.

John returned wiping his hands on a dishcloth. "There, that should be ready in a few minutes. Let me show you the practice. I live on the first floor except for the kitchen and dining room which are at the back and the front room here has been turned into a surgery." He opened the first door on the right, as proud as any king showing his castle. The surgery was clean and white, electric lights shining on gleaming metal surfaces and fresh white cloth. The examination table was covered in bleached muslin. There were glass-fronted cabinets with colored bottles containing iodine and syrup of ipecac, rubbing alcohol and witch hazel. There were jars of cotton wool and tongue depressors, and mortars and pestles. Everything for a modern medical practice, including John's diploma from St. Bartholomew's on the wall.

"It's lovely, John. So well organized. Your patients must be very impressed."

John beamed. Back in the hall he opened the second door along. "I had this office made by taking a bit of the dining room beyond. This, well, I need some help with this if you really want to do some work." He chuckled nervously.

Sherlock peered into the narrow room. It was hardly bigger than a pantry with a desk taking up most of the space. The walls were lined with bookshelves and overflowing with half-opened books, papers and anatomical charts. There was another glass-fronted case with a lock holding stronger medicines such as morphine and cocaine.

John took his hand and for a moment Sherlock was hopeful that the tour was over and they would resume the kissing and perhaps more, but instead John took him to the third door, which opened on the dining room. Reduced in size, the room was crowded with the table, sideboard and china cabinet. The table was laid neatly with lit tapers in addition to the bright electric lights.

"Sit, please, sit. I'll be right back with dinner. It's just a simple chop with vegetables, I'm afraid. It was such short notice, I couldn't get out for shopping."

"John, wait, it doesn't…" but John was gone, off to the kitchen. I don't want dinner, Sherlock thought irritably.

But John reappeared with two plates, seeming as eager to show off his kitchen skills as he had been to show off the surgery.

John poured them both some red wine and chattered on, oblivious to Sherlock's growing impatience.

"The papers are all full of the trial and Mrs. Darling's testimony. I still can't believe it. Mr. Donaldson and Mr. Marlowe. I had my doubts about them at first, but they seem remarkable. Of course, this case has made their name, so they've profited out of it far more than earning their mere fee. Fortunately they keep using the name Robert or Robbie in the press, so I doubt that anyone will know it's you as you get started here in London, certainly not from that drawing in the _Times_. And anyway, all anyone is really interested in is Mr. Darling. I saw the papers all yesterday, and I wanted to rush down, but I knew I shouldn't and then, today, getting your telegram…"

"John, I…"

"Tell me how you left Carleton Hall. Was there any trouble giving such short notice?" It was as if John was terrified of any silence between them.

"No. He dismissed me."

John looked up from his plate, "He dismissed you?"

"Yes. It would have been...awkward. They've hired new footmen here in town and will take them back to Carleton after the holidays."

"But still…"

"He gave me two months wages and said he would write a recommendation if I needed it. It was very generous of him."

Shaking his head, John said, "Still. I suppose I simply don't understand how these things are done in the upper classes. More wine?"

"No. Thank you," Sherlock replied. "I'll just have water." Though John had clearly made an effort in the choice of the red, it was nothing like the cellars at Carleton. He supposed it was something he would have to get used to.

"I bought this practice with some of my inheritance from my father. From a friend of his who was retiring. And had the wiring put in." He chuckled, "Doctor Silverstone, didn't hold with fancy modern things like electricity. I had to put some work into bringing the surgery up to date: new instruments, that sort of thing.

"I'd like to put in a washroom under the stairs and with this new windfall I should be able to do it. It's such a bother to have to take people upstairs. Especially without an assistant. There was an outhouse in the back garden, but I had that sealed over. I had enough of outdoor toilets in India, thank you. "

His voice softened. "You must be... be tired after the past few weeks."

"No, I really had nothing to do but sleep. It was that or pace the cell. And I had a good night's sleep last night at the hall. Mrs. Turner, the housekeeper, was there looking after his Lordship."

"That's good. Good. I wish…I wish I could have been there, at the trial. To support you." John looked down at his plate and ate with a tense aggression as if he were angry at the food. Sherlock could only manage to push his around.

When it was clear that neither was going to clean their plates, John said, "I'm afraid I don't have pudding." He started to rise, "I do have a tin of biscuits if you'd like."

In as calm a voice as he could manage, Sherlock said, "What I'd like, John, is you. In bed, on the floor, over the table. I don't care."

John made a strangled noise and jumped up so quickly that his chair toppled over backwards against the sideboard. Sherlock rose too and when John grabbed him the momentum carried them both backwards into the wall.

"Oh, God," John said, "I wasn't sure— I didn't want to rush you."

"Shut up, John."

"Yes."

Even more than the kiss at the door, this was hungry, needy. John rolled them around the doorframe and into the hall. Sherlock pushed back, shoving John into the opposite wall, nearly whacking his head on a coat hook. John had Sherlock's jacket pushed off his shoulders and dropped to the floor, while Sherlock struggled to pull off John's tie. They staggered their way towards the stairs, knocking over an Oriental umbrella stand and cracking it, although neither of them noticed, too busy kissing and stripping layers of clothing.

John almost fell backwards onto the stairs, pulling Sherlock with him. Sherlock clutched the newel post to save them from falling and backed John up the stairs.

At the top, John steered them towards the open door on the right, the bedroom. Sherlock had only a glimpse of a tidy room with rose and cream wallpaper, the four-poster already turned down, before he fell back against it with a whump, John on top of him.

John had managed to undo the buttons on Sherlock's trousers and he stroked Sherlock's cock fast and hard. Too much—missing John, being alone, needing—Sherlock's head fell back and he came with a gasp. John shoved his own hand into his trousers and in seconds he too, finished, head dropping against Sherlock's shoulder.

Suddenly, to Sherlock's surprise, John began to chuckle, his body shaking. John rolled to the side, still laughing.

Sherlock looked at him, puzzled, concerned and hurt. "What?"

John caught his breath and said, "We should try that again. Only slower. And with our clothes off." He grinned and then pulled Sherlock forward for a kiss.

Sherlock started to laugh and soon they were both giggling uncontrollably.

John sat up and passed Sherlock the flannel he'd laid by.

Sherlock sat up too. "You didn't want to rush me?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, I…I don't know, I thought you might be reluctant, or tired, or, or…oh, I don't know. I just didn't want to make you feel that you had to." John shut his eyes and looked away, "I'm an idiot."

Sherlock grinned, "I love you, John."

"I love you too." They kissed again, slower, more tenderly, and then the kiss started to become more heated.

"John, I…I need to use the washroom."

"Oh! I didn't even think…I am a terrible host. Next door over. I've laid out towels for you."

Sherlock rose and fastened the top button of his trousers to keep them from falling. He turned to go, but John reached out and caught his hand and kissed it, then turned it over to kiss the palm, before letting him pull away.

When Sherlock returned, John had lit candles around the room and turned out the electric lights. He'd taken off the rest of his clothes and crawled onto the bed where Sherlock found him.

"The electric lights are a godsend in the surgery, but they are awfully bright," explained John.

Sherlock shed what was left of his clothes, climbed onto the foot of the bed and knelt at John's feet. He worked his way up John's body, planting kisses along the way, on legs, thighs, and then to his hip, to his belly. "May I?"

John's voice came out in a shaky exhale, "Please."

Sherlock licked a stripe up John's hardening cock. He swirled his tongue around the head and then lifted it to put it in his mouth. Above him, John groaned. Sherlock continued to work his mouth up and down John's cock in slow strokes, feeling it grow harder, larger. He massaged the tops of John's thighs, rolled his testicles in his palm.

"May I?" he repeated, as if it hadn't already been answered.

"Please," John replied.

Along with towels, John had set out a jar of oil next the bed. He might have been afraid to rush Sherlock, but he'd wanted to be prepared. Sherlock took his time, and then as he slid in, he murmured, "Oh, John," and shut his eyes to better feel how they fit together. John said nothing, but ran a thumb along Sherlock's jaw to his lips to let him suck in time to his thrusts.

This time it was long and slow, chasing the sharp-edged intensity of second orgasms, savoring the smells of each other's sweat and sex, the tang on the skin. Sherlock licked along John's collarbones, down his sternum, tasted the fine hairs on his chest. He arched back as John pulled on his hair and leaned up to press tiny kisses on his neck.

"Don't hold back," said John between kisses. "I want to hear everything you have. I happen to know that the old woman on the other side of that wall is deaf as a post, so scream if you want. I want to hear you."

Getting closer, the burn of anticipation growing, Sherlock gave into the freedom, surprised at the sounds that came out of his own mouth as his pleasure took him. Wordless moans, little cries as a shift pushed him closer and a desperate shout of nonsense as he climaxed.

The night passed like that: coming together, drifting to sleep, waking—startled by the close heat of another person—only to remember and turn into each other's arms and begin again, hot skin on skin, the sheets tangled and tossed onto the floor, until the early hours of the morning found them completely spent, not even hard, just sliding together. Sherlock straddled John, collapsed across him, as John cradled his arse. John whispered, "You're here, you're safe, I've got you," over and over as they rocked.

When Sherlock woke he had no idea where he was. The bed was soft, much softer than the bunk in the jail and softer than his bed at Carleton Hall. The sheets were soft and fine as well. 'I've fallen asleep in someone's bed,' he thought in panic, but when he moved and felt the tug in seldom used muscles, along the backs of his thighs and his buttocks, he remembered and stretched in pleasure, expecting to find John's warm, solid body next to him.

The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets already cool. Where was John? Why wasn't he there?

He sat up and looked around. The servant in him noted that the candles had all burned down to stubs, wax dripping onto the dressing table and bureau and that the room needed dusting. The clock on the mantel said it was nine thirty and there was still a merry fire in the fireplace, so John couldn't have been gone too long.

The door opened and John eased in, carrying a heavily laden breakfast tray. "Oh, you're awake! Good. Now I don't have to worry about it getting cold." He put the tray across Sherlock's lap and sat on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock looked down at the tray. "Am I to become the master now, John? Spoiled in bed?"

"I just thought you probably hadn't had breakfast brought to you in bed very often in your life."

"When I was very small, I was sick and my mother brought me porridge. But other than that, no." There was tea and milk; a plate full with a rasher of bacon, a ham steak, tomatoes and blood pudding; a soft-boiled egg in a cup, a rack full of toast and, most wonderfully, strawberries.

"Strawberries! But you must have spent a fortune to get them this time of year." Sherlock took one and wrapped his mouth around the tip. At Carleton the servants received one large basket at the start of the season, and then what might be left from parties. He shut his eyes and savored the sweet juice, but opened them again when he heard John gurgle.

"Oh," John groaned. "I will gladly spend a fortune to buy them every day if I can watch you eat them."

Sherlock frowned and then realized what it must look like. He smirked and took his time then, running his tongue around the whole strawberry before biting into it and licking the juice from his lips.

"Stop that," scolded John. "Or you won't get to finish your breakfast."

"What about your breakfast?"

"I ate while I cooked. This is all for you. I hope I made things you liked."

"It's wonderful." Secretly he wondered if John's skills at breakfast surpassed his skills at supper. "John, do you think you could get my valise. I think I left it downstairs. Only it has my nightshirt and dressing gown in it."

"How silly of us to have left it down there."

"Yes. We were…clearly not thinking."

"Not thinking at all." They smiled at one another and John actually blushed before hurrying off to retrieve it.

John returned and began to unpack as Sherlock ate. "Is this all you own?" he asked as he pulled Sherlock's modest belongings from the bag.

"There are some books at my mother's," Sherlock replied defensively.

John looked at the contents of the bag spread out on the chair: sponge bag, a second shirt, undergarments, six pairs of socks, a box of collars, two nightshirts, a dressing gown, slippers and a pair of brogues, in addition to the suit and boots he'd been wearing the day before.

"Monday," declared John, "we shall buy you a whole new wardrobe and burn these things. Two suits at least, I think, a dozen new shirts. And that overcoat is terribly threadbare. These socks are more darning than original knit. The shoes might be all right resoled. I don't have surgery until the afternoon, so we should be able to get things in the morning and I can leave you with my tailor."

Sherlock toyed with the last of the toast that he'd dipped in the egg cup. "John, I told you. I don't want to be kept.

John came and sat down on the bed. "I know. And I would never injure your pride by suggesting it. But think of it this way. If I'd hired you as my valet, I'd have had to buy you livery, wouldn't I?"

"Yes."

"As an up-and-coming surgeon, I can't have my assistant looking shabby, can I?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No."

"Good. We'll speak no more about that." He paused, and then said in a low voice, suddenly shy, "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I…" Instead of finishing the sentence, John reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a jewelry box. He held it out to Sherlock without looking at him. Inside was a thin gold band.

"It's got a trick," started John, but Sherlock's clever fingers had already found the catch and slid the two pieces apart.

_To SH from JW_ was engraved on one piece. _All my heart - 1913_ on the other.

For what seemed an eternity Sherlock simply stared at it in his hands. He'd thought about asking John if he could have the cufflink back. Perhaps both to keep with him at all times. He had not been prepared for this, for even the idea of this.

Unfortunately, John took his silence for displeasure. "Oh, God. It's too much, isn't it? I shouldn't have. I don't even know if it's your size. And you probably don't… I mean we can't…not really. And it's too soon. You don't have too… I can take it back," he babbled.

"John, I… John… JOHN! It's… It's so beautiful. I would have been happy with just the cufflink."

John finally looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "Really? You really like it? You can wear it on a chain, or leave it in a drawer if you prefer."

Sherlock slipped it on the ring finger of his right hand. It was tight over the knuckle but fit loosely at the base of his finger. "I shall never take it off." He held out his hand to watch the gold catch the light and John seized it, kissed the back, the palm, the wrist.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"Move the tray."

"What? Oh! Oh, God yes!"

The rest of the morning passed in the same way as the night before. At one point Sherlock decided to have a bath. John decided to join him which led to much giggling, tickling and deciding that when they installed the downstairs washroom, they might consider getting a larger tub. After the silliness in the bath they went back to bed, which rendered the whole washing up rather moot.

John rocked gently into Sherlock, barely moving at all, just enough to keep going. "I wish we could stay like this always. Locked together."

"Mmm. From what I understand, human anatomy doesn't work like that."

John nipped at Sherlock's lips. "But what if we could?"

"We might get hungry."

"Boring."

"We might need to use the lavatory."

"Not if we don't eat."

"We might wear out."

At that, John froze. "Oh, God! I'm hurting you. I'll stop."

"Don't you bloody dare!" yelled Sherlock and wrapped his legs tighter around John's back. He pulled John down for a kiss and tilted his hips to pull him in deeper.

Finally, around one they went got up. John brought up some ham, cheese, pickles with bread and tea. They ate in sitting room in their nightshirts and dressing gowns, John in an armchair, Sherlock curled up on the settee, reveling in the decadence of nothing to do.

The room was fairly well-organized, with bookshelves built into most of the walls. Besides the settee and two armchairs, there were two long tables as covered in books as the desk downstairs and fronted with high-backed wooden chairs. It, too, had a neat fireplace where they stirred up a fine blaze. The walls were covered in wine-coloured watered silk, and sepia photos of John's relations were hung about along with a few curio boxes containing pinned butterflies, leaves and other natural objects.

It was a delightfully cozy room, far nicer than the cold, high-ceilinged rooms at Carleton Hall or his mother's low-ceilinged stone cottage.

As if reading his mind, John asked, "Will you be visiting your mother? Does she know about everything that has happened? If you need to go, please take all the time you need. I don't want to stand between you and your mother."

"I wrote her from jail to ease her mind when I was arrested and I wrote her a letter and posted it before I caught the train. I said I had a new job in London. And that I would visit when I was settled. As a servant I was seldom able to visit, so it's not a hardship. What about you? Do you usually spend your holidays with your mother and your sister?"

"Not always. Mum and Harriet are often at cross-purposes, so it puts a bit of a strain on family visits. Perhaps I'll go for a day, or overnight. But not just yet." They would never be able to share their relationship, might never even have the opportunity to meet each other's remaining family. They both knew it.

"Tell me about your mother," John said. "I want to know everything about you. What was your childhood like? What did your father do?"

"He was a gamekeeper. But he died when I was very young, two years old. My mother had been a nanny until she married. When he died she received a cottage and a pension."

"So no siblings?" 

"Not that I know of."

John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock laughed, "My father was a great deal older than my mother. Anything is possible. It was for the best though."

"What was?"

"If he'd lived, if there'd been other children, there would have been less for me."

That seemed a bit mercenary. John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Less of my mother, less money for my lessons," Sherlock shrugged.

True, John thought, but it was odd to hear it aloud. "You said she had ideas above her station."

Sherlock smiled. "She wanted me to become a tutor."

"Surely you could have, with the languages and the violin."

For a moment Sherlock played with the cord of his dressing gown. "It is not so easy, at eighteen or nineteen, coming from my class, to get work as a tutor. I did try."

"I'm so very sorry."

"I'm not," said Sherlock looking up, "if I'd been a tutor, I'd never have met you."

"But still," John reached out his hand across the space between them, "all those years wasted. But no more. Whatever you want to do now, I'll help you any way that I can."

Sherlock gazed into the fire and smiled, "I don't know what I want to do, beyond this, beyond being with you."

They listened to the sleet on the tall windows and the snap of the logs in the fireplace as they finished their lunch.

The exertions of the night before, combined with the soothing staccato of the rain, lulled John to sleep. When he woke, Sherlock was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, knees drawn up, fingers templed beneath his chin, lost in thought. The light lit up his pale eyes and highlighted the beauty of his profile. John realized that it was the first time outside of bed that Sherlock seemed completely relaxed, as if he had finally come completely into himself.

"I said it wasn't Mr. Darling," Sherlock said, apparently engrossed in the fire.

"What? When?"

"Oh, some time ago. You didn't respond."

"I was asleep," John said, bemused. "But anyway, the court said that it was."

Sherlock shook his head, "The court of public opinion said that he was guilty. There's no more proof that he was guilty than there was to prove I was."

John slid to the floor next to Sherlock. "You think Mrs. Darling was lying?"

"No, it's very possible that he did go out, probably for a dalliance with a maid as she first suspected, although I don't know which one it would have been."

"But he fled. Doesn't that prove his guilt?"

Sherlock looked up with a slight frown on his face. "He's a coward, John. He ran away. He would have been too terrified to kill Anderson and risk getting caught. No, it was someone else. And we still have the problem of who returned the letters. They didn't send the letters to Mr. Darling, and they only sent them to Mrs. Darling after she announced that she was divorcing him."

"Does it matter?"

"John! You don't mind that a murderer is walking free? Or that an innocent man is suspected?"

"A very bad man. And it seems that killing Anderson made a great number of people's lives better. So no, I don't mind." John reached up to brush Sherlock's hair back from his face and went on softly. "I want you to be safe. I want to put all of that behind us and go on with our lives."

Sherlock caught John's wrist, "That someone was willing to let me die. Doesn't that bother you? It bothers me."

John sighed, "Of course it bothers me. And that's why I don't want you to get involved. They had no guilt about leaving you there. Who knows what they would do if you came after them."

Sherlock let go of John's wrist and leaned into his palm. "Perhaps you're right. But I want to know. Even if nothing comes of it, I just want to know."

John slid his hand beneath Sherlock's nightshirt to caress Sherlock's calf.

"Are you trying to distract me, John Watson?"

"Yes," John chuckled, "is it working?" His hand slid higher, along Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock let his knees spread apart, to give John more access.

"John," Sherlock murmured, although whether it was in warning or in pleasure neither was sure.

John's hand continued its path, cupping Sherlock's testicles. His forefinger found Sherlock still slick, still open, and he pressed his thumb against Sherlock's perineum and rubbed firm circles.

Sherlock moaned and looked down to where his preseminal fluid was wetting his nightshirt. "John, I only have two nightshirts."

John put his other hand beneath Sherlock's nightshirt, "I'll buy you more. One for every day of the week." He put his palm against Sherlock's lower abdomen and pressed down. Sherlock whimpered and his head fell back against the settee. It felt like the root of his cock was on fire; between John's finger crooked inside him, finding that perfect spot—he supposed it had a name—the thumb at his perineum and the insistent tension at the base of his cock from John's palm. "Oh, John, I…"

It took just a few touches of John's hand to bring him to completion. He was amazed that he had anything left. "John, take me."

"I can wait," John whispered.

"No, take me. I like it like this. When it's so sensitive. Please. Take me here, now."

"I'm getting some oil. I'll be right back."

When John returned, Sherlock was on his knees, bent over the seat of the sofa. He hadn't taken off his nightshirt, just pulled it up. Somehow, partially clothed, he was more erotic than if he'd been waiting naked.

Sherlock made a desperate growling noise as John entered him.

"Are you sure," John asked, bending over to soothe and kiss Sherlock's shoulder.

"Ye—esss…s'good."

John watched, fascinated, as his cock disappeared inside Sherlock's arse. He pulled all the way out, then pushed in just the head, again and again. Sherlock trembled and panted out long ahhs of pleasure and tried to push back, to take in more of John's penis.

"When I first saw you, when I first suspected that you might not mind my attentions," John whispered, "I thought about what my semen would look like on your pale skin. Would you like that, can I come on you?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but made an incoherent sound as if he couldn't find words.

A few more strokes and John was there. He clutched his prick, watching as the drops fell on the firm curve of Sherlock's buttocks and lower back. "God, yes," he cried and slumped over Sherlock until they both toppled over, Sherlock half in John's lap.

"God, yes," John repeated. "I can't get enough of you. You're all I can think of."

"Yes," Sherlock echoed. But, as they lay there, Sherlock realized that he was still thinking on who killed Anderson, but he said nothing to John about it.


	19. What Lady Caroline Revealed

If not for the incident with Lady Caroline, Sherlock might have given up on knowing who killed Anderson and who returned the letters. The next two days were a whirlwind of new experiences and changes, including being with John both in and out of bed, which left little time for any other thoughts.

On Monday morning they went to the new department store, Selfridges, and purchased two suits, a black gabardine and a grey herringbone tweed; a dozen shirts, eight white and four striped; three new ties; a box of collars and studs; a dozen pairs of socks; four chambray nightshirts and two of brushed cotton (which seemed an obscene number, although they bought two new ones for John as well). They couldn't find an overcoat that they liked, most of the stores having sold their winter stock, and so put that off until another day. Sherlock's regular shoes were taken to John's cobbler for resoling, and a bowler hat was acquired at his hatter's.

They ate sandwiches at a small tea shop in Piccadilly near Jermyn Street and then John left Sherlock at his tailor's to have the trousers hemmed, introducing him as "my new assistant, just arrived from the country, in need of a gentleman's wardrobe." John also gave Sherlock five pounds as pocket money, in spite Sherlock's protestations that it was far too much.

He'd only been up to the city a few times with the family and had always been restricted to house duties, with perhaps an all too brief afternoon off if the stay was a long one. But after only a few days, he felt it was where he'd belonged all of his life. The bookshops alone seemed to offer a lifetime of possibilities. Everything fascinated him. Monday evening, after the last patient had been seen off, and after he and John had raced one another up the stairs to the bedroom, he had lounged in a new nightshirt, thumbing through book after book pulled from John's shelves. Anatomy, chemistry, biology spread around him on the floor he made notes on foolscap and slipped bits of newspaper between pages to mark things he wanted to return to. And more than just science—the dialogs of Seneca, the Roman History of Herodian, even Chaucer's tales. The newspapers seemed more interesting in London, possibly because he could enjoy them without having had to iron them. He read the articles on the trial and Mr. Darling's dash to the continent with amusement. John watched, fascinated by Sherlock's desire to know.

On Tuesday he picked up the altered gabardine and wore it from the shop, his old clothes wrapped in brown paper. In his new suit, it startled him to be approached as a gentleman in the shops, to be given preference for service and greeted with a polite and inquiring, "How may I help you, sir?" He came home with more books, tied up neatly with string by the clerks.

"I love London," he declared over a cold supper on Tuesday evening. "Don't you?"

John laughed, that giggle that Sherlock was growing to adore. "With the soot and pollution, the noise and the crowds? Those automobiles scaring the horses?" But John admitted that he couldn't imagine living anywhere else either.

The late post on Tuesday had brought a note from Lady Caroline asking to meet with both of them at the British Museum. Although her words were still circumspect, as befitting a single lady writing to a gentleman, she ended with the demand "tell me everything that has happened, how our mutual friend escaped his predicament, and what your future plans might be."

At ten on Wednesday morning they joined Lady Caroline in the largest of the Egyptian rooms, as if it were an accidental meeting rather than a planned rendezvous.

"Doctor Watson! How delightful to find you here! And Mr. Holmes, you're looking quite well." She held out her small hand and shook Sherlock's forcefully as an equal. Sherlock was touched by the gesture.

They wandered from room to room, stopping in front of sarcophagi and papyrus scrolls, while Sherlock related everything that had happened before and after the trial, some of which John hadn't heard.

"…and then your uncle, his Lordship, dismissed me with wages, and I came to London," Sherlock finished.

"How absolutely thrilling it all is," Caroline exclaimed. "And now you can _assist_ Doctor Watson." The emphasis was unmistakable.

John rolled his eyes. "Lady Caroline!" He wondered if he and Sherlock were perverting her innocence somehow, but she seemed quite delighted with it.

She lowered her voice, "So it _was_ Mr. Darling. The papers are full of it, and how he ran away to escape justice."

"Well," Sherlock paused, considering, "I don't believe it was Mr. Darling. The real murderer is out there somewhere. I still want to identify that person, and hopefully bring him to justice."

John frowned, "Mr. Holmes, I thought we had abandoned that idea. Let sleeping dogs lie, eh?"

It was too late; Caroline's eyes were huge. "But who's left?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted.

"What of my great uncle, Sir Neville?"

John had wondered that too. He said, "I don't know. I wasn't able to speak to him before the trial. I sent my card twice, once in person, and, well, his maid came very close to slamming the door in my face. I really don't want to go down this path, but if you two are determined to speak of it, then what of Sir Neville?" They both looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock gazed at a clay figure in a case. "I don't think so. Anderson seemed to worship him. Praised him highly. He had unkind words for everyone else, but not Sir Neville. Hardly likely behavior if he had something with which to blackmail him."

All three contemplated the little statue for a moment. They moved on to the next exhibit. Caroline gave a dainty sneeze and reached into her cloth bag for a handkerchief. Dislodged, a folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Sherlock bent to retrieve it, and then, rather than handing it back, rudely unfolded it. He looked up at Caroline and said too roughly, "My lady, where did you get this?"

"My shopping list? From my aunt. She asked if I could pick up some little things and sweets for the children's stockings."

Sherlock held it out for John to see. It was typewritten list.

"Your aunt has a typewriter?" John asked.

Caroline glanced back and forth between them. "Yes. Why?"

Sherlock waved the paper in agitation, "Why does a woman of your aunt's position have a typewriter?"

Caroline looked scared, and John put a restraining hand on Sherlock's chest, "I…I…Uncle bought it for her when it became available."

Sherlock pushed on, ignoring John, "But why? For her maid, surely?"

Caroline was actually leaning backwards, and John saw that they had begun to attract attention. "Sh..she has terrible handwriting," Caroline stammered. "Absolutely illegible. She fell from a horse early in their marriage and damaged her right hand so she can't hold a pen properly. She hated having to dictate her correspondence." She looked at John for help, "Remember, I told you that Mummy could read Aunt Alice's letters now. What is the matter? You're scaring me."

"You may have mentioned it, but I didn't realize at the time…" John said, trying to move them both along to a safer place.

"What is it please? _Please_." Her eyes were bright, and she seemed likely to burst into tears.

Sherlock straightened up and leaned back so that he wasn't glowering over Caroline's small form, but his face remained tense. "Jane Larkin told John that the letters, the blackmail letters, were sent back with typed notes!"

Again Caroline looked between the faces of the two men, "But anyone could have a typewriter. You don't think…you can't think! She wouldn't kill anyone."

"Sherlock," John hissed, "stop it! You're making a scene and you're upsetting Lady Caroline." He pushed again on Sherlock's chest more firmly, but Sherlock was unrelenting.

"You told John that you saw your aunt having a row with Anderson that very night!"

"Over something domestic! Please stop. She wouldn't! She couldn't. She's not that strong."

"No, but your uncle, Lord Lestrade, is."

For a moment the words seemed to hang in mid-air. Caroline remembered the handkerchief she pulled from her bag earlier. She looked away from both men, dabbed her eyes and then drew herself up to her full height, small as was. "I won't stand here and listen to this. You have no right to say such things about my family." She turned and walked away, at a steady pace at first, and then more quickly until she disappeared into the throng of museum visitors.

John grabbed Sherlock's elbow and yanked him into a smaller, less crowded room. "That was unbelievably unkind. You have very likely destroyed my friendship with Lady Caroline, a woman who was as strong an ally as you could have had in your position. Not to mention all that she knows about us, and for what? The minor fact that her aunt has a typewriter and was seen chastising Anderson. He was her employee! Let go of this…this…obsession now before you hurt anyone else."

John stormed away, possibly hoping that he could catch up with Lady Caroline and offer his apologies. Sherlock remained for some time gazing sightlessly at some display or other. He didn't know what had come over him. It _had_ been obsessive. Obsessive, rude and frankly cruel. Fury perhaps, misdirected at Lady Caroline, but fury nonetheless. Because someone had left him in that cell in fear for his life. He didn't want to think that it could have been his Lord and Ladyship, but the evidence did seem to be leading there.

He wandered the museum until closing time. Sometimes an exhibit would draw his attention enough to make him forget his troubles, but not for long. When he could postpone it no longer he started for home, back to Baker Street, if it was still his home. Unlike the first night, there were no lights in the ground floor windows of 221. There was still light, albeit softly filtered through the drawn curtains of the sitting room on the first floor. He let himself in with his new key, and felt his way along the wall to the stairs. The door to the sitting room was closed, as was the one to their bedroom. Drawing a deep breath, he opened the sitting room door.

John sat by the fire. Slumped in his chair would have been more accurate. His jacket was off, and his vest and tie undone. "I've written to Lady Caroline," he began without preamble. "I offered our apologies, said that you were tired and suffering from nerves after all you've been through. I said I hoped that she would be able to forgive us, and that all that we said today on the matter be forgotten. I haven't heard back."

Sherlock walked fully into the room, but hovered by the settee, hesitant to sit. "Thank you for that. Do you think I should write my own note, or would that be seen as odd, even if we sent it with your name, addressed in your handwriting?"

John looked at him, his face impassive, "It is forgotten, isn't it?"

Sherlock sat on the edge of the settee, lowered his head and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "I don't know if I can, John. I…I…was so afraid in that cell. So afraid that I was going to die, or be deported, to never see you again. I don't want to think it was the Lestrades who left me there, but if I don't find out who it was, I feel as if I shall go mad. I didn't realize until this afternoon how…how _angry_ I am." He looked up. "Can you understand that?"

John looked back at the fire, his jaw clenching and unclenching. "Yes," he said, quietly. "But that kind of thinking does no good. I've felt it. After Mazouq died. I wanted to charge into the enemy camps single handedly and kill them all. It led me to do all manner of stupid things, culminating in getting my shoulder shot up."

They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, their own memories. John shook himself when the clock on the mantel bonged out nine chimes. "There's some potted meat, salted sardines, pickles in the kitchen. Did you eat anything? You must be starving." John Watson, the doctor, reasserted itself.

Sherlock wasn't hungry, felt as if he'd never be hungry again, going by the knot in his stomach. "No, thank you. I'm not hungry."

"Well, I need some tea. I'll bring up a pot."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"If…if the evidence pointed to someone downstairs, would you be as upset? Leaving aside how I treated Lady Caroline. That was horrid of me. She's been nothing but kind and helpful. I hope we can repair the damage I've done. But, if it were Mr. Gregson, the butler, or the driver, Richards, would you be telling me to let it go?"

John considered, "If I thought that they would harm you because of your inquiries, yes." He paused again and looked at the floor. "I know what you're asking. I don't think I'm discounting the Lestrades because they're upper class. I just can't believe it. I just can't see him murdering someone in cold blood like that." More gently he said, "Let me fetch some tea."

After John returned with the tea, Sherlock moved to the floor, a little closer to John, unsure of how close John might want him.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Do you remember, that first night when you and I spoke, and you told me about Mazouq, I told you I'd had five, well, four lovers?"

"Yes."

"You must have guessed— noticed, that I didn't tell you about any but the first two."

"I knew you must have your reasons."

Sherlock pulled his knees up under his chin and looked down at his kneecaps. "My third lover… My third lover was Peter, Peter Lestrade, Lord and Lady Lestrade's son."

"Oh." John's voice gave nothing away, just waiting.

"He would come up from Oxford on his holidays. He… we… I don't know how it began. I would serve as his valet when he was home, and then I started spending nights in his bed."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, "I thought I was in love with him. I thought he loved me. He would call me handsome; tell me how much I meant to him."

He followed one of the designs in the rug with his finger. "One night… He'd come up with a friend, Charles. I was happy to see him, and I went to his room that night expecting, well, you know. Instead he suggested…asked…told me to go and be with Charles. Service him…as if…as if –." Sherlock's voice broke.

At that, John dropped to the floor next to Sherlock and reached out to grip his hand, stop his tracing. "Sherlock, I'm so very sorry. He had no right to ask that of you."

"It's worse, John. I went. I went and I… did what I— what he wanted, as if I were a common prostitute."

To his surprise John didn't pull his hand away, instead moved closer. "Oh, Sherlock. You poor, poor thing. I'm so, so sorry."

"I went, John," he cried out wretchedly, "I'm a grown man. I was taller than Peter, taller by far than Charles, I could have knocked either of them down, and yet I went. I didn't say no, or I didn't want to, or he shouldn't have asked me."

John pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shaking body. "You did what you had to do. You're not to blame. You're not to blame."

"You don't despise me? Think I'm weak?"

"No! God, no! I don't despise you, and I don't think you're weak. Is that what you were afraid of? That I would judge you? I love you. I love you so much. Nothing will change that. I want to keep you safe." He rocked Sherlock gently in his arms until the shaking stopped. He kissed Sherlock's hair, forehead, cheeks and at last his mouth. It was tender and soft, a press of lips and nothing more.

Before it could go further, Sherlock said, "John, I swore to myself that I'd never let myself feel like that again, but I did. I felt it in jail, and I can't bear it. I need to know why. I hope it's not the Lestrades. Or at least that his Lordship isn't the killer, but I believe that her Ladyship went into Anderson's room after he was dead, retrieved the letters and returned them to their owners."

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's disheveled hair. "Perhaps she did. Perhaps she sincerely believed you killed him and that's why she said nothing to save you. I just can't believe that the good man that I met could have killed someone and then sat in court and watched you put on trial."

"Agghhh," Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back, "What does it matter? I don't have any proof, any evidence. And I've insulted the one person who might have been able to help."

"Then will you let it go? At least for awhile. For me? For us. Be happy here, in London with me. The Lestrades can't hurt you anymore." John kissed Sherlock again, more forcefully this time, as if to cut off further discussion.

Tentatively, Sherlock's lips parted beneath John's. He wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, pulled him closer, and John responded in kind until they were lying side by side on the rug in front of the fire, undressing one another, hungry, it seemed, to physically connect again after their first fight.

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's jaw and throat in quick, hot kisses. He pushed John onto his back, and lay on top of him naked, his right leg pressed between John's so that their cocks slid against one another's, between their stomachs. He studied John's face as he ground himself against him, watching the tenderness in John's blue eyes, even as John's breath grew more and more ragged, the slip of wetness growing between them as they both leaked pre-seminal fluid. "John, John, John," he whispered. At that moment he wanted to do anything that John asked. To forget everything in the world in the depths of John's eyes.


	20. Anderson and Lady Lestrade

On Thursdays, John's charwoman Mrs. Thorn came in to clean and take away his laundry. Accordingly, John would schedule rounds to take himself out of the house so she could strip the sheets in the surgery and mop the floors. Mrs. Thorn was a taciturn woman whose mouth turned down slightly on the left. She was neither friendly nor unfriendly. She came in, did her work, and left.

John stayed long enough to introduce Sherlock to her as his assistant and lodger and to say that Sherlock would spend the day at the British Library to keep out of her way. She nodded politely at Sherlock and then asked if she would be expected to go up all the way up to the second floor to collect his linens and clean his room. After a glance at John, Sherlock said that he would bring them down to be collected in the kitchen with the surgery things and that he preferred to tidy his own room. They had discussed the problem, that there would be no linens to change in the spare room or things to tidy. It was clear that they were going to go through enough sheets in their own bedroom to assuage any suspicion she might have had. His answer seemed to appease her and she started her cleaning at the back of the house as was her custom.

However, once John had left, Sherlock went up the spare room and changed into his old suit. John had wanted to give his old clothes to the rag-and-bone man, but Sherlock had said that they should hang them upstairs, just in case. Already the old things seemed like a costume he was donning, rather than something he'd worn just a week earlier. After a moment's hesitation, he took off his gold ring, threaded it on a piece of string and hung it around his neck beneath his shirt. Then, avoiding Mrs. Thorn, who might wonder why he had changed to older clothes (or might not—he didn't know yet how observant she was), he slipped out the front door.

He regretted the subterfuge. Although he had never actually told John that he would let go of his need to find the killer, he knew that John would find the distinction unconvincing. In the morning he did go to the British Library, enjoying how its heavy silence and somber anonymity gave him time to think, particularly about what he was planning. There was one person, one person who might have known what Anderson was up to, and he needed to speak with her if he was to ever figure out what had happened.

The Lestrades gave each of their servants one half-day off every two weeks, which was very generous. Sometimes those were cancelled if the family was entertaining regularly, but he suspected that the family was keeping a low profile during this holiday season. At half past twelve he bought fish and chips from a vendor and made his way to the park in Grosvenor Square opposite the Lestrade's townhouse. At one thirty his gamble paid off. A trim figure in a brown dress and a navy blue coat and hat came up from the area and started down the street.

Sherlock hurried after Sally and caught up with her just as she was turning the corner.

"Sally!"

Sally whirled around clutching her handbag defensively against her chest as if Sherlock were a thief. "Get away from me. I'll scream murder, I will!"

"I'm not a murderer, Sally. They found me innocent." He reached out towards her, but she backed away until she was pressed against the wall.

"Just 'cos they let you off, don't mean you're innocent. Papers are saying it was Mr. Darling but it wasn't so it must be you." She looked genuinely terrified.

"Sally, Sally," he said, trying to be as soothing as John would be in the same situation. "I didn't kill him. I swear that I didn't. And I want to find who killed him as much if not more than you. Let me buy you a pint and we'll share what we know. All right?"

"Why should I?"

For a moment he thought about offering her money, but he knew she'd be insulted. If he were still in her position he would have been. He leant forward, this time she didn't try to move away. "I know Anderson was blackmailing people—Mr. Darling was just one of many—I think one of those people killed him, and I want to find out who it was. Don't you?"

She shut her eyes and sighed. "Are you planning to blackmail them now?"

"What? No! I want them brought to justice. Do _you_ want to blackmail them?" He paused as he considered something she'd said. "You said it wasn't Mr. Darling. How do you know?"

She sighed again then looked directly at him. "Buy me that pint."

They found a pub. Sherlock installed her in the snug, to her surprise, and went to buy the beer. He returned and sat down on the bench across from her. "What about Mr. Darling?"

Sally looked down and slowly removed her gloves. After a large sip of her beer she said, "When Mr. Darling left Mrs. Darling, he wasn't killing Billy. He was with me. In the laundry room." She looked up sharply, daring Sherlock to judge her.

"Oh," was all he could think of to say. Then, "He might have killed him uh…after. Before he went back to his room."

"Maybe," she said sullenly. "But I don't think so. He was talking about trying to sell some of his wife's jewelry to pay off a blackmailer. He didn't know that I knew it was Billy. I don't think it was in him to fight back. He was weak and whiny."

"Then why…?" Why would she go with a man she didn't seem to like? Something dark occurred to him, "Were you in on it with Anderson? Did you get the evidence and then he—"

"No! Well, not really. Sometimes I got him information, but he left me out of the business side of it. Said he wanted to protect me." She chuckled bitterly, "No, Mr. Darling was a bit of fun. He could make a girl laugh." Wistfully she added, "Made you feel special when you were with him, even though you knew it wasn't true."

"You could clear his name, you know? Come forward. He could return to England."

She barked out a laugh, "Come forward! Lose my job, my reputation for a man who wouldn't remember my name if he passed me on the street? Not bloody likely." She took another large gulp of her beer. "No, me and Billy…me and Billy." Her voice dropped, and Sherlock heard the sadness in her voice "He always protected me. I knew what he did, like I said, got him some things—people who deserved it—but he didn't tell me who he went after. Said it was better that I not know. Safer."

To his shock she began to cry. He realized that she'd had no one with whom she could share her grief over Anderson's death. "Were you…lovers?" he asked.

She shut her eyes and shook her head, "More like brother and sister. We grew up together in the orphanage." She sobbed, "All we wanted was a little shop. To call our own. I've been scrubbing floors since I was big enough to carry the bucket of water. I hated it. _We_ hated it. Knew if we could just get a bit of money we could put it all behind us."

"I hated being in service, too."

Her head whipped up in fury, "YOU! You have no idea. You come waltzing in, all lah-di-dah, with your learning and your manners and your pretty face. Life's been so easy for you."

He pulled back. "What do you mean? I grew up poor, just like you. I had no other options but service, for all my, as you say, learning."

"You're nothing like us. You've no idea what it was like at the orphanage, Ashburnham House. Doesn't it sound like a pretty name? You scrubbed and cleaned all day and got beat for mistakes, and then you lay there, cold and scared at night. You had a mum didn't you? Mum who loved you and tucked you safe in your bed. Put things in your stocking for Christmas. I've heard you talking, 'bout how she paid for your lessons, and groomed you for something better, alls so you could look down on us that never had nothing. Mocking our way of talking—you're doing it now, I can see the sneer of it on your face—and how we hated them upstairs. Of course we hated them! What had they ever done for us? Those fine ladies coming in at Christmas to pray over us and tell us how we should be ever so grateful for what we had because we were our mothers' shame. Should be lucky for being baptized and lucky we weren't on the street. Should be grateful for being beaten and hungry and cold and told we were worthless all the time. Half the girls probably ended up back on the street, and their babies would end up in Ashburnham after them. No, you've never been like us!" She slumped back in her seat as if the speech had taken everything out of her.

"I'm sorry, Sally. I had no idea." Feebly he added, "I am sorry he died. I would never have wanted him dead." They sat in silence nursing their beers and Sally pulled herself together, dabbing her eyes much as Lady Caroline had the day before.

Suddenly he looked up. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought to himself. He'd been so interested in the letters that he hadn't thought of what else might have been taken from Anderson's room. "Sally, what became of the money? The money that Anderson was collecting?"

"I don't know. We weren't, me and Molly, weren't sent in to clean his room. Mr. Gregson and Mrs. Turner packed up his things, and they sent Violet up to clean after with Mrs. Turner supervising her. Don't know if any of them found the money, pocketed it for themselves most likely. Or the coppers did when they took his…took his body away. Leastways it didn't come to me." She started to cry again, this time for herself. "And now I'll be in service 'till I die, and I'll be alone. I loved him like a brother. I hated him sometimes, same as any real siblings, but we looked out for each other, and now he's gone."

Sherlock waited until she'd calmed down again. "Sally, I'm going to find him. I'm going to find who killed him. I can't get you the money back, even if I knew where it went, but I will find who killed him. I swear I will do that for you and for him. But I need you to think. To really think. What else did he know? Who else was he blackmailing? You say you passed him some information; anyone who would have been stronger than Mr. Darling? The two of you didn't work with anyone else, did you? Someone outside of the house?"

She shook her head, "No, just us two. I only ever gave him things on ladies I didn't like. Mostly he got things from other servants."

"Do you know…do you know if he was blackmailing Lady Lestrade?"

Her beer was gone. She rolled the glass between her palms, looking into it but not seeing. "She wasn't a virgin before she married, and not with his Lordship. A maid, a maid who came with her when she married, told Billy that, when her Ladyship sacked her. At first he said he wouldn't do it, because we didn't know if she'd sack us too and risk it. We came together from the orphanage after all. She might have thought we were in it together."

There it was. What Anderson had been referring to on that Saturday. Lady Lestrade not a virgin when she married his Lordship. He wondered if that was why they'd been arguing that night and what it had led to. "So he was blackmailing her?"

"I…I think so. I didn't want him to, because she was a decent mistress."

"Had she paid?"

"I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I knew what happened that night." She chuckled again, "Truth to tell, I wasn't convinced it was you. Didn't really think you would get your pretty white hands dirty like that."

He ignored the jab. "Is there anything else that he might have said, about anything, that night?"

She frowned in concentration, and said slowly, remembering. "I saw him just before I went up to my room. You'd bunked off early, and Molly and I'd had extra duties, too, so we were all running late."

"Was he going up also?" Had Sally seen him before or after his fight with Lady Lestrade, he wondered.

"I think he was. Yes, because Gregson was shooing us out of the kitchen. He seemed very happy, happier than he'd been in days. I asked, well, I asked out of Gregson's earshot if he'd gotten a payment, and he said that he'd gotten something better, something that would take care of us for the rest of our lives."

"What was it?" Sherlock leant forward.

"I…I don't know. He said he'd tell me after chapel if it all went well." She was fiddling with her gloves, and Sherlock knew he was running out of time.

"Did you tell the police any of this?"

She looked at him askance. Obviously not, then.

"Another pint?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head, "I must go. I told Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Norris that I would pick up a few things for the kitchen maids."

"Another time, then," Sherlock said, although they both knew that was unlikely. "Thank you for all you've shared. I really will try to find his killer and bring him to justice. I'm sorry…I'm sorry that you've lost your friend."

She met his eyes squarely, "Thank you." Then she gathered her gloves and bag, "I really must go. Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes."

"Happy Christmas, Sally."

After making his way back to Baker Street, he changed into a new shirt and trousers and hung the old suit in the attic room. He happily put his ring back on his finger, made himself a pot of tea, and settled down in front of the fire to try and put all of the things that he knew together into some sort of order.


	21. The Last suspect

Whether he was so lost in thought or had actually drifted to sleep, he jumped at the feel of John's breath in his ear but relaxed as John's tongue traced along his throat.

"I missed you," John murmured. "Thought of you all day. Mrs. Phillips said that I must have had a nice holiday because I looked tired but happy. Come to bed with me."

"Don't you want tea first?"

"Later." To prove his point, John slid his hand along the front of Sherlock's trousers to caress his prick and bring him to hardness.

Sherlock wondered if normal men and women felt like this on their honeymoon, so desperate for one another that the slightest touch led to arousal, or was it part of their perversion to be so sexually voracious.

At some point, though, one must emerge from the bedroom, if only to eat, and they resumed their pleasant domesticity in front of the fire in their sitting room.

Sherlock wanted John's thoughts on what he'd learned from Sally, but wasn't sure how to approach it. He didn't want another fight.

"John, I know…I know that you want me to forget it, but let us say that I don't act on what we discover, would you be willing to discuss it?"

John put aside his newspaper and shut his eyes. "You're really not going to let this go, are you? I suppose I understand, after, after what you told me last night. If…if we believe that it's his Lordship, what will it change? Anderson was a thoroughly despicable fellow, it seems. If he was hurting her ladyship, blackmailing her, then, I understand Lord Lestrade killing him. I don't condone it, but I understand it. But, you're right, if it was Lord Lestrade, then he was willing to let you suffer, and I can't forgive him that."

"I went to see Sally."

"Who?"

"One of the Lestrades's maids."

John frowned, "That seems dangerous."

"It was her afternoon off. I caught up with her and bought her a pint. She said that the night of the murder, I believe after Anderson had had his fight with her Ladyship, he told her that he'd gotten something better than money and that it would set them up for life."

"Better than money? More information, but surely that would mean more blackmail money."

"That was my thought as well. An ongoing source of income? A better place? A partner? Sally said that although she knew about it, he didn't tell her the details of who he was blackmailing, and that there was no one else involved. And the money has disappeared. We know where the letters went, or at least we think we do: Lady Lestrade. It stands to reason that she took the money too."

As one, they looked at each other and said, "The Charleses!"

"Well," said John, "that does seem to be more evidence that it was Lady Lestrade who searched the room and found the letters. A servant wouldn't know about the Charles' misfortunes and wouldn't be inclined to give away what they'd found either, even if they were good enough to return the letters." John pursed his lips in thought.

Sherlock nodded, "Lady Lestrade entered the room after Anderson and this other person, the murderer."

"Could it have been before?"

"No, if the room had been ransacked, Anderson would probably not have removed his jacket to wait for someone."

"Or, she and the murderer came together."

"Which takes us back to his Lordship." Sherlock perched on the edge of the chair and spoke rapidly, hands flying. "Let's try to retrace the order of events. I claimed I was sick and left Dimmock and Anderson to clear the table, put out the candles, etcetera. The party broke up, and the maids and Anderson and Dimmock would have set the drawing room to rights. Now, here's where we begin to speculate. We assume that this is when Anderson and Lady Lestrade met and argued about blackmail money."

"Are we sure of that? What would he have had over her? She and her husband seemed so in love."

"According to Sally, Anderson had learned that her Ladyship wasn't a virgin when she married."

John chuckled, "Well, there's many a couple who can't wait for the bans—"

"Not his Lordship."

"Ah."

"Just so. Now, immediately after—it must have been—Anderson told Sally that he'd gotten something better than money."

"Something from her Ladyship? Information? Information about someone else? Someone higher up, with more to lose?"

"Exactly!" Sherlock beamed at John's cleverness. "We know that he was already blackmailing Mr. Darling and Jane Larkin, but not the Charles'. I doubt, although am not absolutely certain that it wasn't Lady Louisa or her fiancé and, at any rate, they won't have full access to their trusts until they marry. Lady Caroline has no money, and would certainly have told us if Anderson had approached her. So, of the guests in the house that weekend—and I think we can discount anyone Anderson was blackmailing who wasn't there that weekend—we're left with Dame Agatha, who lives on an allowance. And," he paused dramatically, "Sir Neville."

John shook his head. "I thought we'd eliminated Sir Neville."

"Yes, because Anderson admired him in the afternoon, BUT he'd gained new information from Lady Lestrade. Sir Neville doesn't have a good reputation, but what he has he'd certainly like to keep."

Now John was leaning forward, eyes bright. "Sir Neville hates servants, or considers them less than human. He wouldn't take too kindly to a servant blackmailing him."

Sherlock clapped his hands! "Exactly again, my love. Enough to kill?"

They stared at one another, smiles on their faces. Sherlock's face fell. "But this is all conjecture. No evidence, no proof."

John considered, "You saw the room first, correct? Then Gregson, his Lordship and I. What do you remember of the room?"

"Anderson was in bed, on his back with the sheet over his face. I noticed that half the room had been ransacked as if whatever was being searched for had been found. I pulled back the sheet and saw that he'd been strangled with his own necktie, not his livery tie, that he was still in his livery otherwise, and his sleeves were rolled up." He shut his eyes, "That knot in the tie. There was something about it—"

"I thought that, too! But I wasn't able to look at it too closely."

"Can you remember what it looked like, John? Really remember?"

"I think so." John shut his eyes as if he could picture the knot on the back of his eyelids.

Sherlock leapt up, went to the desk and pulled out some paper and a pencil. He sketched quickly and passed it to John.

"Yes! Just like that."

"And why his own necktie? Why did the murderer use that?"

"Longer than a bowtie?" John asked.

"Yes! The coroner in the trial said that the knot was unusual, that once it was pulled tight it would have been nearly impossible to dislodge."

John opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again and pursed his lips. "That reminds me of something. Something that I remember from India." He got up and walked to his bookshelves and pulled down a book, _Cults of India_, and thumbed through it rapidly. "Yes, here it is, the Thugee of central India." He laid the book on the table and he and Sherlock bent over it.

"I thought they'd been wiped out in the 1830s"

"Officially, yes, but in practice, who knows. There are wilds of India where white men never go. Here's the knot that they would use to strangle travelers."

"It isn't exactly the same knot."

"No, but you can see how it could be modified to create that knot. It was apparently very effective, silent, fast. Disabled the victim instantly. There's something else…" John walked to the bookshelf again and pulled out another book, and then another.

He laid them out next to the _Cults of India_. "This is the most comprehensive history of India, _History of India as told by its own Historians_." He looked through the index in one book and then returned to the other. "Yes! Here it is:

_…the Thugs were hunted and brought to justice by the determined efforts of William Bentinck and his chief captain, William Henry Sleeman. While the Thuggee cults and their brutal violence were wildly condemned by the British, there were those who admired the efficiency of their methods of execution. At times proposals were made amongst various factions of the military that the techniques be studied and imitated by the British army. There were rumors that certain divisions, notably the Seventeenth Foot Soliders, took it upon themselves to train in the use of a modified version of the Thuggee garrote while stationed in the Mhow region, due to the remnants of the cult in the area._

The two men stared at one another. "Do you have a copy of Burke's Peerage, John?" Sherlock asked.

"I think so, though it may not be the most up-to-date." He started looking over the titles on the bookshelf.

"It doesn't matter," said Sherlock. "Unless it's fifty-years out-of-date, it should be sufficient for our needs."

"Here it is." John struggled to pull the book from a top shelf. Sherlock reached up and plucked it down easily.

Sherlock opened it and quickly found the page he was looking for:

_Sir Neville Grenville, KBE (1900), CB (1895) 17__th__ Foot Soldiers, (1877-1879), Mhow…_

He slammed the book shut and grinned at John. "Proof!"

John walked over and gripped Sherlock by the shoulders. "You said you weren't going to act on it. Grenville is a dangerous man. We knew it before, and this confirms it. If we progress with this, we bring it to the police. I bring it to the police." John held up his hand to stave off Sherlock's protests. "It's better that you not be involved. Let me talk to my solicitor—he set up that fund to help you—he'll have the best idea of how to proceed."

Sherlock nodded. For the moment, it was enough to know who had done it. All that remained was the why.

On Friday Sherlock decided that he should start to work for John, although John protested that he needn't start just yet. He made a valiant stab at clearing the desk in the little office and made tea for little old ladies who told him he was handsome.

They settled in after dinner, John with a medical text and Sherlock with Ovid. At approximately nine the telephone rang. John looked up startled. He'd only had the contraption for three months.

"Who can that be?" He drew the belt of his dressing gown tighter and went down the stairs. Sherlock waited at the top.

"Hullo?" It took him a moment to recognize the voice on the other end of the line.

"Doctor Watson? Is this Doctor Watson? Please say it is!"

"Who is— Lady Caroline?"

"Doctor Watson, what you said, what Mr. Holmes said on Wednesday… I…I asked my aunt, or rather sort of mentioned it obliquely, because, because I didn't want to think…but it kept weighing on my mind about the typewriter…oh, Doctor Watson!" Her voice broke in panic.

"Lady Caroline! What is it? What has happened?" By now Sherlock had come down the stairs to listen in.

"I said…I said I wondered who else was being blackmailed, and wasn't it funny about the letters being returned. And then I said…I said that it was strange that they were typewritten, only I shouldn't have known that…and…and…she looked at me in horror and ran from the room, and now she's left the house, and no one else is home…"

"Where's his Lordship?"

"At his club. Some sort event with his friends from college, and Lou and Francis are at a dance, and it's only me and the children and the servants, and I don't know where she could have gone."

"Lady Caroline, calm down, it will be alright, I promise you, but this is very important: where does your uncle live?"

"What? Here."

"No, Sir Neville."

"Sir Neville!"

"Yes, we, we believe that Anderson may have been trying to blackmail him. We only just realized or we would have told you. Your aunt may be in grave danger."

"Oh," Caroline cried.

"Where does he live, Caroline?"

"I'm…I'm not sure. Let me ask Gregson." They heard her put the receiver down. After about two minutes she returned. "Forty-one Holland Park Mews in Notting Hill. Please help her, Doctor Watson."

"We'll go there now, Lady Caroline, and bring her back home. I promise you. Try to stay calm, and if your uncle returns…you may want to tell him what you know."

John hung up the phone. Sherlock was already rushing up the stairs to get dressed.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in a hansom cab wending their way through London. "Sorry, gents," said the cabbie. "It's slow going tonight with this fog." The streets were heavy with thick, yellow London fog, and visibility was poor. Often the cabbie had to rein up sharply to avoid other vehicles that came out of the mist.

"Wait for us," Sherlock called when they arrived at the Mews.

"Blackie's always nervous in this weather, sir. Mind if I take him back around to keep him moving?"

"Go on then."

Sherlock and John approached the house with caution. The street was very dark with only a few lights shining through the fog. They could barely make out which was number forty-one amongst the unlit houses. "Should I simply ring the bell?" John asked.

"I don't know. We don't even know if she's here. It looks as if no one's home."

Sherlock went back down the steps to try to see the upper floors. There was a scream from inside. John had just put his shoulder to the door to try and break it down when it was flung open and Lady Lestrade rushed past him without coat or hat.

He was pushed roughly aside by Sir Neville who was shouting, "I'll stop your mouth for good, you lying whore!"

Accidents happen so fast that there is only confusion with details hard to come by. The details are filled in later. To John the hansom seemed to appear out of the darkness like an apparition, bearing down on Lady Lestrade who stood frozen in the middle of the street staring back at the house. Sherlock threw himself at her, his momentum carrying them both out of the way of the rolling carriage as Sir Neville came after them. Startled, Blackie reared up, the hansom swerving dangerously at a tilt. John didn't need to see the hooves strike Sir Neville's skull. He'd heard the wet crack of breaking bone so often in India and Afghanistan. The horse screamed and reared up again, the weight of the carriage behind him forcing him back down onto the fallen man.

"Stop, thief!" John shouted as lights came on in windows up and down the street. He made a show of running a few yards along the road as if in pursuit, as the cabbie climbed down and tried to calm the frenzied horse before it crushed the body to a pulp.

"He just ran out," the cabbie was saying helplessly as people started to gather out of the darkness.

There was the distant sound of a police whistle. John rushed across the road to where Sherlock was still standing holding Lady Lestrade's limp form.

"Is she alright?" he asked Sherlock, checking Lady Lestrade's face for blood or bruising.

"Just fainted," Sherlock confirmed.

"Go to the end of the street and catch a cab back to Baker Street. I'll try to divert attention."

Sherlock lifted Lady Lestrade in his arms and disappeared into the night. John pushed through the crowd that had gathered. "Let me through, I'm a doctor. I saw the whole thing." He didn't need to check the man's pulse to see that he was dead. His skull was broken wide from the heavy hooves, blood and brain matter spread across the cobbles. The cabbie was practically in tears, still trying to soothe his horse, its nostrils still flaring in panic and sides flecked with foam. "Did you see the man he was pursuing?" John asked.

"N-no," the man stammered. "I thought there was someone else, but then he, the man, ran out and—"

"I saw him," John answered, "he was dressed in black and he ran off towards the high street. He just pushed past me." As with all accidents, people began to believe what John told them from the surety in his voice, so that by the time the police arrived to take statements, there were many eye-witnesses to describe the imaginary thief.

In the cab with Sherlock, Lady Lestrade stirred briefly, looked around at where she was, and seemed to slip back into a sort of catatonia without recognizing Sherlock. She meekly allowed him to walk her up the stairs to the sitting room at 221 to wait for John.


	22. Her Ladyship

Sherlock settled the still unfocused Lady Lestrade in John's chair facing the fire and fetched her a brandy which she took without comment and nursed in silence. After so many years of conditioning, it seemed impossible to sit in her presence. He hovered, standing, near the window watching for John's return.

After an interminable half hour a hansom pulled up and John hurried into the house and up the stairs.

"Is he dead?" asked Lady Lestrade in a dull voice when John entered the room.

John paused and then answered, "Yes, your ladyship."

"At last. Am I finally free of him?" She sank back into her stupor, the empty brandy glass hanging from her fingers until Sherlock deftly removed it.

"Your ladyship," said John softly. "I was able to retrieve your coat and handbag when I helped carry his— him into the house." He laid her coat over the settee and placed the handbag in her lap. She stroked it absently as if it were a cat.

John moved over to Sherlock and asked in a low voice, "How is she?"

"She seems unharmed—physically. I've given her the one brandy."

"Good, good. I hate to ask it of you, but why don't you fetch a pot of tea. I think we could all use some."

Sherlock smiled at John's concern for his sensibilities. "Of course, John."

When he returned, John was kneeling at her ladyship's side massaging her hands and talking to her soothingly. He took a cup from Sherlock, added several lumps of sugar and urged Lady Lestrade to drink. She seemed oblivious to Sherlock's presence or at least who he was, which was probably for the best.

"I suppose you want to know why I was there," she said, still staring into the fire. She didn't seem curious as to why John and Sherlock had been there.

"Only if you want to tell us. I can take you back to your home now if you feel strong enough."

"No, I've lived with it so long, with him keeping me in his power that to clear it all…" She looked at John at last. "If I tell you, will I be in your power?"

"Anything you say here, your ladyship, will remain between us forever."

"Yes. You are a doctor after all. It was you, wasn't it, who spoke to Mrs. Darling?"

"I offered her my services."

"How good of you," she said drily. John let it pass.

She pressed her fingers to her eyes as if to massage away a headache. "You have to know that I love my husband. He is the dearest and best of men. I would do anything to protect him."

"I'm sure of it, your ladyship," John replied.

"He was the most desirable bachelor of my youth. He was handsome with a good personality and, of course, a fortune. Every good mother threw her daughters in his direction. I believed I had no chance." She paused, "I suppose I should start even earlier. My mother died when I was nine and Louisa—Caroline's mother—was six. My father…my father became ill when I was fifteen and Louisa and I went to live with our uncle. He didn't live in Notting Hill then, but a larger house that in the end he couldn't afford. He gave me a season, but not enough money for the dresses that are expected, or the entertainments." She smiled ruefully at John, "It seems ridiculous, doesn't it? And yet, that is the life for a woman. I expect that he wanted me to marry one of his associates, older men, just like him. I'm sure he owed them. My debut was a mere formality. And then, at my very first dance…Lord Lestrade asked for my first dance. And my sixth. And my seventh."

She smiled at the memory and John thought of a dance card carefully preserved in a book somewhere, perhaps with a flower or other token.

"From then on," she continued, "he would ask what dances and parties I was going to attend to be sure to be there. I couldn't attend that many. When he learned I had no horse, he lent me one of his to ride anytime I wanted. I loved him from his first kiss of my hand." Her face darkened and she resumed plucking at the handbag in her lap. "At first my uncle was furious. As I said, I believe that he had meant me to be a bargaining chip. But then…then he decided that he could benefit from my marriage to Gregory. When Gregory proposed, he was over the moon."

She stopped talking and John waited patiently. By the window Sherlock waited with less patience. This wasn't enough to explain everything that had happened, but it was impossible for him to step in to ask questions and John seemed content to let her ramble.

"The week…the week before my wedding, my uncle was already making promises on my fiancés name. I…I told him…I confronted him and said that I was free of him. That he would get nothing from Lord Lestrade through me and that I would be bringing Louisa to live with us so that he'd have no power over her either. I had already discussed it with Gregory." She shut her eyes and tears ran down her cheeks. "He struck me across the face again and again, and then…he forced himself on me." She covered her face with her hands, but cried in silence.

John offered her his handkerchief. "Your ladyship, I am…I am so very sorry."

"He said that I belonged to him forever now. That I had to do anything he asked or he…he would tell my husband that I was ruined. He said…oh, God…he said that he should have done the same to my mother to keep her from turning him down for my father."

John waited until her sobbing had stopped, then leaned forward in his chair. "Your ladyship, I realize that I don't know much about marriage, but I've seen his lordship's love for you. I cannot think, even now, if you were to tell him, that he would blame you in any way. No woman, _no_ woman is ever responsible for her own rape. Your husband, I could understand…I can understand the fear that your husband would have sought to punish your uncle. I know that I would if anyone I loved suffered so. But your husband is also an intelligent man and—"

"—that may be so," she interrupted, "but would he be so eager to raise another man's son?"

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock, but he said nothing.

"My uncle raped me a week before my wedding. Peter, my son, was born nine months to the day after my wedding." She looked up at John, her tear-stained face hard in its grief, "Tell me, Doctor Watson, is there a way to ever know who fathered a child under those circumstances?"

John sighed sadly, "No, your ladyship."

She nodded, "No, I didn't think so. Do you know what it is—what guilt it is—for a mother to fear her own child, even when he is in her womb, fear that he could…be a monster? I was very sick for some time after he was born. I thought— I hoped that at least Gregory would love him, but…then the girls were born and fathers dote on their daughters, and, and… I watched Peter every moment while he was growing up, for some sign to tell me who he belonged to, every moment of kindness, every moment of cruelty. I even…God forgive me…but he punished me for that." Her hands twisted in her lap.

"Lady Lestrade, did you…was the riding accident…did you try to…"

"Rid myself of my pregnancy? Yes, Doctor Watson, even that. Do you believe in bad blood, Doctor?"

"No. No, I don't. Did you find signs of it in your son's behavior?"

"He was a difficult child, and a willful young man, but no, not monstrous."

"Then I believe that you have been a good mother and raised a good son. I wouldn't dwell on wondering what might have happened." He waited a few moments and when she said nothing else, he asked, "And Sir Neville has held this over you all this time? Did he believe that Peter was his son?"

"He never said in so many words. Just that my secrets would come out if I ever refused to help him, or to get his lordship to help him. And then, then, that _servant_ comes to me, threatening me with the same thing. To be in his power as well. It was too much. Too much. After I had brought him into our home from the orphanage. So I found what I needed, and I gave it to him…that night, that night."

Sherlock moved closer to her chair without getting in her line of sight. This at last was what he had been hoping to learn.

John noticed Sherlock's movement and asked, "What did you give him?"

"His birth certificate and a letter that his mother had left him at the orphanage before she left this world. Proof that he was Sir Neville's son."

There was a long, drawn out moment of silence and then she said, "I caused his death, didn't I? I sent him to a monster." She said this so matter-of-factly that John wondered if he'd misheard her.

"Did you think that your uncle was capable of murder? Was that your intention?"

"No! Yes…I don't know. Perhaps, secretly, in my heart of hearts. And after, I did go to him, my uncle, I mean, and I begged him, _begged_ him, to come forward and confess for his very soul." For the very first time that evening, she turned to look at Sherlock. "You must believe me. I didn't know what else to do without giving myself away, without losing everything I'd fought so hard to protect."

Sherlock nodded, face tight. "Can you tell us what happened that night? He asked for his payment, didn't he, and you gave him his birth certificate instead. Did you make him think that he would really be welcomed by Neville as his son?"

She shook her head, "No, I doubt even he was that ignorant, to think that a man like Sir Neville would ever acknowledge him, or that there weren't at least a dozen others with first claim. Ashburnham House Orphanage might well have been called Grenville Repository. But he was a blackmailer, perhaps he thought that Neville would pay, or even that they might go into business together."

"It was you, wasn't it? After Anderson was dead, you went to his room and took the letters. And the money, I assume," Sherlock asked.

"Yes, but I didn't think he would go to my uncle immediately. I thought he would wait until the next day at least. I regretted what I'd done, you see. Instantly. I thought that I could go and reason with him, convince him that whatever he wanted from my uncle, he wouldn't get it. But when I went to his room he was already dead and my uncle was gone. He must have taken the birth certificate and the letter—probably long burnt by now—but he didn't know about the other victims. I covered Anderson's face, gave him what dignity I could, and searched the room. I was shocked at how many others there were. And how much money he'd collected. I couldn't return the money, of course, but I could return the letters, and put the money to good use. At least now I needn't worry that Donald Charles will throw it away on another investment scheme of my uncle's."

John asked, "Why didn't you send the letters to Mr. Darling? Or send them to Mrs. Darling immediately."

She looked down, "We all knew—everyone but Claire—what a rogue Miller was, and we all tried to convince her, but I couldn't send her those letters. I thought I'd be no better than a blackmailer as it wasn't my place to tell his secrets, but I couldn't send them to him. I didn't want to give him peace of mind either. When the news of the divorce broke and she told me that she knew all about it… I thought that they would serve as evidence for her divorce.

"When she took the stand, I was so relieved for you, Mr. Holmes. I was glad that you were safe. And I begged my uncle again to come forward, to clear Mr. Darling, but he laughed in my face."

"And tonight?" John asked, after a nod from Sherlock.

Abruptly Lady Lestrade looked up at him, "What are your intentions towards my niece, Doctor Watson? Since it seems that you have made her your spy in all of this under my nose."

John blanched at the change of subject. "I…I admire your niece very much, Lady Lestrade, but I am afraid that I am a confirmed old bachelor, and I made that very clear to her from the first. But I value her friendship. I didn't want to involve her in my…my investigations, but she volunteered. We both believed in Mr. Holmes' innocence and felt that it was our duty to prove it." There was a suggestion of reproach in his voice.

"I see. You seem to have taken Mr. Holmes' interests very much to heart, very quickly. Tonight when she mentioned the typed letters I knew that she'd been talking to someone about everything and that meant that someone else knew. That my uncle wasn't safe, and therefore that I wasn't safe. I went to his house to tell him that I would finally come forward. That I couldn't bear it anymore. He threatened me, made to strike me again, and God knows what else, and I ran. The rest is such a blur, the horse, you and Mr. Holmes, bringing me here. And here we are."

She had retained an air of strength, that majesty of bearing that John had noticed from the very first, when she spoke of the events of that evening, but now she slumped, her head dropped to her chest yielding and, John realized, as did Sherlock from his corner, that she thought that they were going to take her to the police now that their curiosity was satisfied.

"When you tell them about tonight," she said, voice low and sad, "will you, please, for my family's sake—his Lordship and my children, Caroline and her sisters—not mention what happened long ago. Tell them…tell them that in your medical opinion I went mad. My father went mad, you know. No one speaks of it, but everyone knows. It's why we went to live with Sir Neville in the first place. It will be an embarrassment, but the truth…the truth will destroy us."

"Your ladyship," said John, rising from his chair, "I…" He didn't know how to go on. "Mr. Holmes, could you fetch us a carriage? I'll just come with you."

Sherlock nodded and they both went into the hall together. "Do you want to punish her, Sherlock? It's you who've been wronged, you who had to suffer."

Sherlock glanced back into the room where she still sat, looking down at her hands. "If you'd asked me this afternoon, I'd have said, 'yes, of course,' but...but, she's suffered a great deal all these years. As you said yesterday, Anderson was thoroughly despicable, and Sir Neville was a monster. The murderer has been punished. And all the suffering caused by both men has been ended." He looked at a spot above John's head for a moment, "No, I don't want her punished. Let her go back to her family and make what explanations she needs to make and we'll all put this sorry story behind us." He smiled at John then. "I'll fetch that carriage."

John returned to the sitting room. Lady Lestrade stood. "Your Ladyship, Mr. Holmes and I will see you to your front door. I doubt that the police will have come yet. Since I, hopefully, put them off the scent, they will probably wait until the morning to bring you the news of your uncle's accidental death. I leave it to you as to what you will tell them. Or your husband."

Lady Lestrade nearly slumped back into the chair and John rushed to her side for fear that she would faint again, but she righted herself. "Doctor Watson…thank you."

"I cannot judge your actions, Lady Lestrade, because I don't know if I would have been able to act differently if my circumstances were the same."

"I keep thinking of what my uncle said long ago and what you just said about my loving Peter. Do you think, Doctor Watson, that my uncle might have been a better person if my mother had loved him instead of my father? If someone had loved him?"

"I don't think anyone can answer that, your ladyship. It sounds to me as if he was the kind of person who only knew how to take what he wanted, not to ask for it or earn it."

She nodded and allowed him to help her into her coat and take her down the stairs to the cab where Sherlock waited.

Despite the late hour, Gregson answered the door along with her ladyship's maid.

Caroline rushed out of a sitting room as Gregson was helping Lady Lestrade in. "Doctor Watson? May I have a word before you go?" Gregson gave a disapproving sniff, but let her go to the vestibule where John waited.

Her dark eyes were red rimmed and looked as large as sovereigns. "What has happened?"

John sighed, "Your uncle, Sir Neville, has met his death in a tragic accident." She gasped. John looked her firmly in the eye. "I believe that your aunt had been to visit him _but_ she had already left when the accident occurred. I happened to be passing the street—I have a patient in the neighborhood—and found out, and quite by chance was able to bring her ladyship home." The story seemed to flow from him as he said it. There would certainly be questions, although he thought that he'd gotten Lady Lestrade away quickly enough, and he'd never said his name.

"Oh," said Caroline in a small voice. "And what…what else is there?"

He smiled softly, "I'm afraid a great deal of it isn't mine to tell, but if you can meet us next Wednesday, as we did this Wednesday past, I'll share what I can. And our friend hopes that you can forgive his behavior. He…we both want, most sincerely, to be your friends."

She smiled, but it was a tired smile, as if her first taste of adventure had left her more weary than she'd expected, "Yes. I'd like that too. I'll be there. Good-evening, Doctor Watson." She let him out and shut the door.

In the street Sherlock was standing next to the cab smoking a cigarette and gazing up at the sky. The fog, the catalyst for so much the evening's events, was dissipating, patches of the night sky and even a little moonlight peeking through.

"Fancy a walk?" he asked.

"It's cold," said John, "and I'm tired."

"The fresh air will clear our heads. And we can catch a cab further on if we like."

"True."

John dismissed the cab and they set off towards the center of town. Sherlock took John's arm companionably. He seemed almost lighthearted despite all that he'd learned.

"Are you actually happy?" asked John, an edge to his voice.

"Not happy per se. Or not for the reason that you think. Lady Lestrade's story was a tragic one, and one that I wouldn't wish on anyone. I think that we did the right thing. Justice has been served in its own strange way. Despite it all, it's brought us together, sooner than it might have. Let us say contented instead. And animated as well."

"Animated?"

"Don't you see? We, you and I and Lady Caroline, we sought answers and we found them. Lady Lestrade might have gone on the rest of her life in her uncle's power. I might have been hanged and Mrs. Darling still be deluded by her husband. No, we have brought good from evil through this. We have used our minds. I feel as if I have used my mind for the very first time—not in some pointless task—but doing something good and exciting and important." He waved his long arm to encompass all of London. "Who knows how many secrets are waiting out there, John, just below the surface, behind all these elegant doors, or in the dankest boarding houses.

"In all my observations of the guests at the house I never knew that there were so many secret sorrows and intriguing events. I feel as if I could look into any window in the city, observe any man—or woman—and see the random chances and carefully laid plans, the marvelous connections and lost opportunities, that make up our stories, the stuff of life. This, this is my area of study!"

John watched Sherlock's profile going in and out of shadow as they walked between the street lamps. He wasn't sure what Sherlock meant, not yet, but the enthusiasm of his lover was, for the moment, all he needed to know.


End file.
